


Ever Unbending

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [4]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, During Canon, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-04-17 01:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 55,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14177583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: Season 2: A Blind Betrayal adaptation.This story asks the big question – where the hell was the Railroad during this quest????





	1. M7-97

**Author's Note:**

> Theme for Ever Unbending: [21 Guns - American Idiot](https://youtu.be/q1RKr4pWOqs/)

DANSE

The Glowing Sea, MA

December 22rd, 2287

The orderly chirp of the signal pulser had unintended soporific effects on Paladin Danse. His heartbeat had slowed to coincide with the pulser’s rhythm, the effect lulling him into a hypnotic trance. 

In the hours since Knight Sterling had departed Sentinel Site Prescott, Danse’s only company had been that methodical beeping sound and the full stockpile of nuclear bombs that shared the room with him. Imposing stacks of them stretched all the way to the top of a high ceiling, silently sleeping. Robust concrete walls housed the pre-war bomb storage facility, providing a stable home for the Mark 28 nukes. Nothing organic existed here. Even Danse in his armor could have been mistaken for equipment.

Facing a lengthy stay in the radioactive environment, Danse had donned his helmet, opting for full protection. An intersystem icon blinked on a sub-screen of his visor, a message sent to the entire faction. He would check it shortly. For now, as he waited for transport to arrive that would carry the nuclear reserve all the way back to the airport, he locked the legs on his armor to rest. The suit would remain upright until reengaged. He hadn’t slept in days – not uncommon for him, but still draining. Sealed in safety, he let his eyes slide closed. His mind drifted as tense muscles relaxed.

Knight Sterling’s return to Sanctuary Hills had instigated a rapid series of proceedings. To Danse’s delight, Sterling had selected to build his interceptor at the airport with the full support of Brotherhood personnel. Given that the knight had his hand in all pots, Danse had begun to question his commitment to the Codex. Yet within a few weeks, contact had been made with the Institute and the time to strike would soon be at hand. Danse and Sterling were a team again, out in the Commonwealth preparing a reckoning. Liberty Prime was a sight to behold and what a glorious day the Brotherhood of Steel would have once it was fully operational.

Returning to the Prydwyn alongside Sterling had felt a bit like going home. Familiar faces and the steady pace of progress made him proud to have such a strong bond with his faction. Proctor Ingram was working on a new prototype weapon – a crossbow, the bolts filled with injectable amounts of Scribe Neriah’s anti-rad discovery, the X-111 compound. Understandably, Arthur’s first instinct had been to weaponize the element and send it out into the field. Such an armament would temporarily cripple a ghoul or mutant, making retrieval of the specimen simple. No more piecing together bits of bullet-torn carcasses for study. It would be game-changer for their regime, one that the East Coast Elders would appreciate. Danse couldn’t wait to see it being field-tested.

He found it refreshing to be boots-to-the-ground again, working for the cause, and it was a relief to be free of the current complications that life in Sanctuary had brought. The addition of an Institute courser to their band had caused many to doubt Sterling’s intentions, forcing a crack in the well-oiled machine that kept daily violence away from Sanctuary. Deacon had gone to ground, Curie was under orders to remain within the local vault, and Valentine had been sent back to Diamond City. Danse and Colonel Garvey had taken to carrying their weapons with the safeties off, while Dogmeat’s growling seemed to stretch for hours, tail tucked and scruff bristling. If Sterling had noticed, he’d made it a point to remain silent.

Danse’s respiration slowed as he drifted in and out, his ears still on the alert should his trusted suit notify him of any change. He was glad for the respite, even if this particular mission added up to little more than busy work. Recent events had threated to leave him in a state of insecurity. He had felt such soaring relief when the ghoul had chose to leave Sanctuary for Goodneighbor, and not seeing him each day made the swirling tension in Danse’s gut lessen. Now, even a dull exercise such as guarding a Brotherhood requisitioned cache of nukes was a welcomed return to normal. Some lingering strain must have been present either on his face or riding his voice, for Sterling had been reluctant to leave him here. Danse had just barely been able to convince his new protégé to leave and return to Proctor Ingram with good news and better fortune.

He was alone now, a rarity in his life. Sanctuary hopping at all hours, the Prydwyn crammed tight with soldiers, and long months of traveling in a unit had all robbed Danse of privacy. The lure of chancing uninterrupted sleep was powerful, and he found himself slumping in his armor.   

“ _Paladin_!” Haylen’s tinny voice screeched into his ear. His eyes snapped open as the sound jolted him to attention. Through the com-system in his helmet, her voice cut in and out between bouts of static. “ _Paladin…do not…Danse…you there_?”

“Haylen?” he mumbled, shaking the remainder of fatigue. He unlocked the legs of his suit.

“ _…frequency…not secure. Repeat: do not…Prydwen_.”

“I don’t understand. Scribe, switch to a clear channel.”

“ _Dammit, Danse. Check…file_.”

The message icon continued blinking on a sub-screen corner of his visor, tiny and unassuming. He activated it.

Displayed across the visor, in scrolling lines of yellow font, he read:

_This is a priority alert. Paladin Danse has been identified as an Institute synth by our command staff. Its current whereabouts are unknown. If it's spotted, terminate immediately. Do not attempt to approach. If you are unable to engage, report Danse's last known location to any duty officer as soon as possible so we can track its movement. This attempt by the Institute to tear the Brotherhood down from the inside has failed. Despite their treachery, we will persevere and emerge victorious. Ad Victoriam, brothers and sisters._

He briefly wondered if he had fallen asleep to dream the strangest of scenarios. He read the report again.

“ _Danse_!” Haylen screamed at him, her voice shrill in his ears.

The words on the display seemed to muddle, floating in and out of sequence. All but one: synth.

_Synth._

Clear as blood on snow.

“ _Danse_!” Haylen yelled again. The static cleared. “ _A deployment is en route to the Sentinel Site. They aren’t going to talk to you, they aren’t going to listen, and they aren’t going to stop_.”

He felt stunned, numb. This had to be some jest that he didn’t understand, his brothers playing an ill-conceived prank. “I…I have to stay with the ammunition stores…”

“ _Danse, please. Please, listen to me_.” She sounded on the verge of hysteria. “ _You have to run. Now.”_

His brothers were coming to kill him. He begged and battled with himself not to believe it.

“ _Where would you be safe? Where would no one look for you_?”

“I don’t…” A memory surfaced, pushing its way through his addled brain. The vitality of if shook him to the core. He took a steadying breath. “Where it all started,” he said with conviction. “The very first place I visited in the Commonwealth. An old listening post north of the remnants of Boston.”

_“Go. I’ll find assistance.”_

He had no reason to not believe Haylen. There had been an error in his carefully conducted life. They’d work this out later, together. Arthur. He’d need to get through to Arthur.

Danse promptly wove his way out of the Sentinel Site, through curving tunnels and towering gangways. As he threw the outer door open he was met with the sight of a roiling sky, lighting crashing in jade hues, and boiling puddles of toxic waste. Thunder clashed amongst winds gusting, the squall strong enough to make his suit slant by minute degrees.  

A trio of Brotherhood soldiers stood ten yards away, all in armor protecting them from the elements. Three knights, one of them a commander, all with weapons drawn. Danse froze as the heavy steel door slammed shut behind him, trapping him on a short concrete stoop. Where was their veritibrd transport? It couldn’t have landed anywhere nearby. These soldiers had arrived on foot. 

Danse raised one hand over his shoulder and met empty air. He had given his trusty rifle to the new Knight. His only defense was an inferior laser pistol, which he pulled from its holster inside a panel in the leg of his armor. As he raised the pistol he felt a knot twist in his stomach and was instantly sickened. It felt inherently wrong to raise arms against his brothers or sisters. He shakily lowered his weapon.

“M7-97, exit your power armor,” the knight-commander, a man with a gruff voice, ordered. A Gatling laser hugged his hip.

Although Danse wasn’t sure who the officer was addressing, he considered the implications of compiling.They had been ordered to kill him. Should a firefight erupt, his armor would prove a hindrance to their mission, possibly giving him ample time to dispatch at least one of them. He had to try reasoning with them before this got out of hand. “Stand down, soldiers,” he addressed them. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Danse, please don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” said one of the other knights, a woman.

“Why are you even bothering talking to it?” the third solider questioned. _Rhys._ Danse noted the cold tone of his voice. He had never been fully able to curb Rhys’ bloodlust. Should shooting start, the first blast would come from Rhys.

Danse made a choice. He moved off of the short stoop and took a heavy step onto the sandy ground of the Glowing Sea. His second step was equally forceful. The knights encroached closer. Hot air shoved at Danse’s armor as he held his ground, nerves firing in anticipation. He wasn’t a superior officer by chance, or by strength alone. Resourcefulness was the only reason he’d survived so many battles.

The ground below his wide metal feet rippled. Sand exploded, spraying in all directions as two radscorpions hunters erupted from the earth. Danse dove to one side as the massive insects crashed down, landing on their many feet. The other soldiers cursed and gunfire sounded. Rolling, Danse put the beasts between him and the knights. In the midst of laser fire and the ungodly clicking of the radscorpions, he climbed to his feet and ran, keeping a stern heading of north by northeast.

He pushed his suit to the limit of its mobility as he tore around the wide base of the pyramid, setting a straight course for obstacles rising on the horizon. He fired his pistol at a few enormous flying insects than blocked his path, turning them to ash. Running flat out, he crested a ridge that sloped down at a sharp angle on the other side. The grade almost caused him to roll. He stumbled before straightening and wove a jagged path, avoiding laser beams as they shot past him, turning sand to glass where they struck the dunes. The knights were gaining.

A map of the region sprang to mind and he adjusted course, noting the needle of his compass as it swung at the bottom of his screen. As his lungs burned with exertion, he came upon the skeletal remains of a long-wrecked airplane nestled amid rocky outcroppings, its wings lying in forgotten fragments all over the terrain. He set his sights on the largely intact yet battered main section and made straight for it. When he and Sterling had discovered the wreck, the knight had called it ‘ _a nice place for shelter if I was a feral with a death wish_ ’.  Danse had written the place off, deeming it unsafe. Right now, it was his only chance to lose his pursuers.

Scrambling up a hillside in power armor was no small feat, and Danse was huffing by the time he reached the plane. Ducking through an open exit door by the cockpit he gripped a seatback for leverage and hauled himself up into the cabin. The Geiger-counter in his suit went wild. A dense reddish rad-haze had settled inside of the plane, obscuring visuals within the cabin. He moved down the aisle, making his way by feel, metal fingers grasping one seatback after another, his wide shoulders occasionally bumping into the overhead compartments. Catching his breath, he paused in a galley. There was no sound. No one was shouting and laser fire was silent. Had he been lucky enough for the Glowing Sea to claim his would-be assailants without him having to fire a shot?

The answer came when his suit began to chime a pinging alarm that was intrusively loud. His location transmitter had been activated. Danse’s own suit of armor now stood as an additional betrayer.   

He charged through the remainder of the airplane, the weaving steel beams and torn-out holes creating a dangerous web of uneven footing and long drops down. Danse could hear the other soldiers calling for him, warning him to stop. As he approached the tail end, the mist cleared and his momentum nearly caused him to topple through an opening. Griping the seatbacks for support, he looked down. The tail of the plane jutted up vertically from the ground, wedged amongst two hills, providing a twenty-foot vertical drop. At the bottom, past a hole where the rudder had been, lay the entrance to a twisting path that led out of the Sea. He could see unbroken power lines still strung in the distance.

“M7-97!” a solider called, encroaching on his location. He turned and saw all three of the soldiers close in, climbing into the airplane, half-masked in the rad-cloud. “Drop your weapon!”

The alarm on his suit still rang. There would be no hiding if he remained in it.

Danse looked down the tail section once more. He backed away from the envoys, nearly to the edge of the drop down the tail. His tossed his laser pistol down into the maw. He faced his opponents and glanced down at his armor. Three beads of red light danced over his abdomen, primed to strike the guts of his suit, rendering it inoperable. He looked back up. “Not today,” he said.

He tilted backwards and plummeted through the tail section.

He came to a stop with a crunching thud, armored shoulders too broad to completely fall through the wreckage. He pulled at the release valve of his suit. His uniform pulled free from the interfacing systems with a succession of suction-induced pops. There was a short sensation of free fall as he was dumped from the ass-end of his armor. He hit irradiated soil hard enough to jar his spine. Wincing, he glanced up. His armor wedged the gap, preventing the other soldiers from dropping down to pursue him.

He pawed for his laser pistol and retrieved it, shaking sand from the weapon. Exposed to the elements, he ran. The heat of the Sea stung at him, bathing him with fine needlepoints of pain on the exposed skin of his face, searing his lungs. He sprinted towards the power lines, rushing through thick clouds of yellow vapor. The sky turned from fiery sienna to green, then to a blotchy gray before eventually deepening to black with pinpricks of stars. He was near exhaustion when he finally reached a splintered stretch of old highway.

With blessed asphalt beneath his boots instead of molten earth, he came to a stumbling halt. His head swam as he bent double, winded. Bile rose in his throat and he knew he was in the early stages of rad-poisoning. He needed to find Rad-Away or, at the very least, a bottle of iodine.

Clutching his stomach in the silent road, he debated if his flight was ill-conceived in a moment of panic. He had fallen into a self-preservation mode, yet was elated that he hadn’t turned his weapon on his brethren. This was all a terribly inconvenient mistake, no reason that anyone should lose their lives. He’d get to his fallback position, contact Haylen and Arthur, and everything would right itself. Who would he be if he didn’t have faith in his allies? 

He turned north, stumbling up the road, his only possession a laser pistol containing five rounds.


	2. John from Diamond City

HAYLEN

Old State House, MA

December 24th, 2287

Haylen stared up at the swirling staircase and felt a swelling sensation of vertigo. The brick building rose several stories high and the looping stairs appeared to spin in ever widening arcs as she craned her neck. Glowering down at Haylen from an upper level was that frightening, half-burned woman, saying, “Hey, Boss – you’re gonna want to see this.” Her voice echoed slightly, bouncing down from the rafters to where Haylen stood on the ground floor below. A pair of tough-looking men with submachine guns snorted in delight from where they stood blocking both exit doors.

Desperation had driven her to action. When Danse’s empty armor had been hauled onto the Prydwyn, she’d panicked. Knight Sterling was unreachable, likely in the Institute where Brotherhood signals couldn’t penetrate. She’d taken an abrupt leave and headed straight for Diamond City. The municipal felt safe with its orderly security and clean streets, but her lead had fizzled out, and she’d been set to leave with a heavy-heart. As she stepped out into the Fens, one of the security officers, a young ginger-haired man, had stopped her and, in hushed tones, directed her here instead.

Said to be run by some violent degenerate, Goodneighbor had more than met Haylen’s expectations. The sight of junkies indulging out in the open and the sounds of back alley sex – with a few onlookers hooting and hollering – had proved this place to be the den of sin it was rumored to be. It also seemed to be a ghoul town, their gnarled faces everywhere, and everyone carried a firearm in plain view, openly challenging someone to attack them. What a disgusting mess of a location. No wonder the Brotherhood had blotted out its location marker on their maps.

On an upper floor, a door creaked open. A ghoul decked out in full colonial splendor drifted into view. He was dressed in a long, tattered red coat and wide brimmed hat. Haylen’s impression was that he looked like a performer, playing some part from a story she didn’t know. That had to be him – the leader of this town. He trailed one hand along the railing as he made his way down to meet her, ringed fingers brushing the wood. “You’ve been making one hell of a racket.” His voice was like chalk on concrete. “Well, here I am. Out with it.”

Her mouth fell open. “You’re...John from Diamond City?” she squeaked.

“In the flesh. Well, what’s left of it.” He reached the end of the stairs and strode towards her, his impassive eyes dark as pitch.

She inched away as he approached until her back hit the front door, causing the guards to chuckle. “You…you’re not what I’d expected.” A ghoul. In all of the – occasionally hot – situations that she had imagined Danse and his former Commonwealth boyfriend, this had never broached her mind as a possibly. Why would it have? Danse was a model solider. She suddenly found herself doubting whether she knew him at all.

“Serves you right for making assumptions.” He smirked, smug under his tricorn, and extended an open palm towards her. “Welcome to my little slice of paradise.” Though his skin looked dry – not at all like the gummy flesh of ferals – Haylen couldn’t bring herself to shake the ghoul’s gnarled, flesh-torn hand. Instead, she stared at his hideous face, confounded. After a few seconds passed, the ghoul’s brows lowered a fraction. He dropped his hand, gaze, and agreeable disposition. “Ah. Of course. Well then, step into my parlor, little fly.”

As she followed him back upstairs the guards glared at her, and Haylen cursed herself for not taking the time to change into civilian apparel. Her scribe ensemble made her feel like a traitor, yet in her rush to find help, it had not been her concern. Had she arrived in armor, she would have likely been cut down at the gate. Instead, the gatekeeper had just laughed, either because she was a woman alone in the Wastes or from the name she’d mentioned. Then he’d called the burned woman over.

Haylen swallowed the nervousness she felt. This wasn’t about her. Ahead, blocking a doorway, that intimidating woman skulked in shadow, leveling her gaze at Haylen over a cigarette. The ghoul tossed his head at her and she stepped aside with narrowed eyes. He held a door open and motioned for Haylen to enter. Once she was inside, he followed her in and closed the door, leaving the menacing woman outside. The room’s windows were boarded, blocking daylight. A few lamps with perforated shades filled the room with tawny light. Shabby couches flanked a coffee table strewn with paraphernalia. The room felt lived-in and had certainly seen its share of traffic, as evident by the wear of the floorboards. It smelled musty, like old cigarette smoke and time.

The ghoul – John, she corrected herself, though she found it strange to address one by a name – took a heavy seat on one of the couches. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the getup,” he said, picking up a loose cigarette from the coffee table. He blew on it to clean it and brought boots up to rest on the table. “A Brotherhood rep showing up on my doorstep? No one enjoys that kinda surprise.”  After lighting the smoke, he added, “Makes people nervous, you dig?”

Haylen took a seat on the opposite couch, hands folded neatly in her lap. “No one knows I’m here. I’d like to keep it that way.”

The ghoul blew a long plume of smoke as he studied her. “That so? Interesting.”  He offered her a drag on his cigarette, which she declined. “So,” he said, bringing the filter to his withered lips. “Tell me your tale, sister.”

That title, coming from a ghoul, startled her. She found herself stammering, “Look…I…what I’m about to say…it’s going to sound pretty crazy.”

The ghoul shifted, re-crossing his ankles. A sardonic smile made his radburn scars pull tight. “As of late, my life tends to go the route of the strange and unusual.” He shrugged. “Try me.”

She fidgeted, wiping sweaty palms over her pants. “It’s about Paladin Danse. He said…he said if the worst should happen…I should find you.”

Those black eyes went wide. For a moment, he softened, his shoulders loosening. The smile faded. “Did he?” Then, he swiftly closed up, eyes narrowing. “When’d he say that?”

“I…he…” Haylen twisted her fingers fretfully as she dodged his question. “You weren’t in Diamond City. Someone said it was likely you came here. I thought –”

“When did he tell you?” he repeated harshly, putting his cigarette out on the wood of the coffee table.

“He…” She deliberated lying. Rather, she took a breath and said, “Seven or eight years ago.”

Something in his eyes shifted, like a curtain dropping, shutting her out. He swung his feet off the table. “No. I’m done with you. Goodbye,” he said pointedly, waving his hand for her to leave.

“Wait,” Haylen said, distressed, rising to her feet. “I don’t know what happened between you two but he needs someone. He’s –”

He stood so slowly, simmering anger in every muscle. The intensity in his dark stare made her want to cower. “Lady, you ain’t listening,” he growled. “Think having some Brotherhood patsy asking questions about me is good for my image? You show up in my old town, start shouting my old name, drawing attention to yourself, wind up _here_ where you continue to make yourself conspicuous, and now you want me doing favors?” He tramped to the doorway. “Clean up your own mess. I don’t owe you, him, or any of the rest of you assholes anything.” He twisted the knobs and cracked the doors open to leave.

“Danse is a synth.” The words came pouring out of her mouth.

He froze, hands still on the doorknobs. She counted her breaths as she stared at his narrow back. He didn’t move. “When?” he finally asked, his rough voice barely audible.

“Sorry, what?”

“When?” he repeated, his tone sharp. He slammed the doors shut, promptly spun and encroached on her. There were daggers in his eyes. “ _When_? Why do you have a problem with this question? _When was he replaced_?”

“I don’t...I don’t know.” She swallowed, backing away from the advancing ghoul. Putting her hands up in front of her, she talked fast. “Maybe he was replaced. Maybe his unit is an original. We don’t know. The Institute files have him down as missing. Maybe that means he ran from them. Maybe it just means they lost track of him. We don’t have any way to verify.”

He stopped less than a stride away, taking shallow breaths, his ebony eyes aggrieved. Though motionless, he was still menacing. “Start over,” he said in a chilly voice.

Without taking her eyes off him, Haylen fished a holotape from of a pocket. “I made a tape for him. It contains all the info I have. I’d take it to him myself but I can’t risk running into my brothers or sisters. I was part of Danse’s last unit, they’d suspect me of treason. But someone from the Wasteland, someone outside of the Brotherhood, could slip by without a second thought.” Haylen shook her head, worry about to manifest as tears. She locked eyes with him, pleading. “It’s been forty-eight hours since my last contact with Danse. He’s all alone. I don’t even know if he got there.”

“If he got _where_?” He snapped. “Where did you send him?”

Haylen’s shoulders slumped as a rush of air left her lungs. “I don’t know! I trusted him to make contact once he was safe! He said something about an old listening post up north –”

He snatched the holotape from her hand and took off through the door, coat flowing as he disappeared down the staircase.

The burned woman peeked around the doorjamb and raised a brow at Haylen. “Um…I’ll be going now,” Haylen said, anxiously squeezing past her, eager to get back to her own people.

“Best you do,” the woman called as Haylen descended the staircase. “And you better not have gotten him involved with that man again,” she warned. “He barely survived the last time, and that certainly isn’t an exaggeration.” 


	3. Bravo

JOHN

Listening Post Bravo, MA

October 20th, 2277

“You came.” That deep voice sounded stunned.

“Said I would, didn’t I?” John said from under a simple travel pack. He stood on a helipad, his long, thin fingers tracing the wording on the tail of a vertibird. _Invictus_ , it read, stenciled neatly in white letters. He’d never seen one this close and had made straight for it. Though he hadn’t spotted his acquaintance right away, he was clearly nearby.

Autumn had cut the heat and humidity of summer and replaced it with cooler breezes and a gentle sunlight that warmed the back of his long-sleeved shirt. The bunker nearby had been built into a rocky hillside, using natural formations to obscure its presence. Years of grime had caked on the outside of the structure, complete with hanging vines and root overgrowth. John hadn’t even noticed it until he’d practically been atop it. “Isn’t this outta your way?” John queried, turning to the man behind him.

“Not at all,” said the solider, leaning with arms folded against the canary-yellow railing that led down from the platform. “I enjoy flying.” He was just as handsome as John remembered, in gray jeans, boots, a black shirt and a cotton-lined leather bomber jacket. “This location has an intact landing pad,” he explained, pointing. “Plus, communication servers that can be used to reroute messages almost anywhere. It’s an outstanding find, really.”

“How’d you get the ‘Bird?”

“All paladins have basic piloting and medical training along with an assigned craft.”

He sounded so honorably self-accomplished that it put John to shame. “How old are you?” John asked.

“Twenty-two.”

John frowned. He was twenty-four and the only thing he had done with his life was accumulate a large variety of stories and paperwork. And pockets full of chems.  He had opted to bring only Mentats and Jet with him, the easiest to slip unnoticed, having no way to gage what the soldier’s reaction to hypodermics would be. He imagined that it wouldn’t be favorable.

“And you?” the man asked. “How did you get here?”

John lifted one shoulder and wandered over. “I have means.”

“Caps?”

“No. Uh…notes,” John mumbled. Jeez, the guy was enormous, towering over John and twice as wide in the shoulders. 

“Notes?” asked the man, his dark eyes genuinely interested.

“One of the perks of being richer than I can handle – my signature is worth more than a crate of Quantum. I can get anywhere.”

“How?”

As they walked down a wobbly set of metal stairs leading down from the pad, John shrugged again. “Caravans, metro lines, train tunnels, boats, ships, sky ways, walk ways. You’d be surprised at how many transit lines exist. Not well advertised. Too easy to monopolize trade routes, you get?”

“I understand.” They meandered down the dirt path to the nearby bunker. The man had a brisk way of walking and John had to march to keep pace. “You were right about the trees,” he man said with a shy smile, gesturing to the vegetation the clung to the hills.

“What trees?” John’s brain tripped over his nerves and he found himself confused. He was essentially following a stranger into a hidden shelter in the woods. He’d really stuck his foot in his mouth by mentioning his wealth, but it wasn’t as if the Brotherhood would hold him for ransom…right?  

“The trees in the Commonwealth,” the man clarified as they entered the bunker, a dim little room with nothing more than a bare desk and a terminal. “They certainly do put the Capital’s foliage to shame.”  

“Oh. Yeah,” he fibbed, not really remembering. As the man stopped to tap a password into the walled terminal, John mentioned, “So, uh…I guess I should ask your name.”

The young solider froze in comical surprise. He jerked his head at John and dropped his hands. “Oh, I thought I’d…I’m sorry.” He stood ramrod-straight and they exchanged an awkwardly formal handshake. “Daniel Danse.”

“How about I call you Dan?” asked John. “Short. Simple. That work?”

Those heavy brows creased, but the man nodded and returned to the terminal. “I suppose I can accept that.” Danse pressed the elevator button. It lit up.

When the car arrived, they stepped inside and John nudged Danse with an elbow. “So, uh, Dan…no smoke and mirrors, okay? Don’t make this a recruitment exercise. That won’t go well.” It was one thing to pal around with someone from the Brotherhood but, blame it on the Enclave, big, unstoppable organizations made John dubious. 

Danse’s cheeks burned bright pink under the elevator’s dim lighting. “I understand. That was not the intent behind my contacting you.”

“Ah.” John didn’t have to guess. Their first interaction had been nothing but physical. He would be expected to perform again, this time with different facets included, an eye-opening introduction to experiences he had only imagined. From what he had gathered, this would either be fantastic or terrible, without much in between the two.

The inside of the bunker, apparently sealed for quite some time, was left clean. Danse had obviously gotten there first. Work lights were operational, cords snaking their ways to a single generator. A solitary terminal sat powered on a desk, glowing with cyan illumination. Several bags were spread in an orderly line along one wall. In a far corner, Protectron stations stood in a row, the robots stationary but powered. A filtration system hummed, cycling fresh air though the complex. Danse led him through a short earthen tunnel. “Smells like a Yao Guai died in here,” John said, his nose wrinkling.

A smile lurked in the corner of Danse’s mouth. “One did. I took care of it. I’ve also reset the perimeter defenses. I wouldn’t advise leaving without my company.”

They rounded a corner, passed through a hole in a wall, and entered an additional chamber. It held a small bed shoved lengthways against a wall, a cabinet with a small, shapeless bag on it, a desk littered with both ballistic and energy ammo, a sizable trunk and a wall full of recording equipment that had been defunct for centuries. Soft lighting filtered through a large window, illumination provided by the room with the Protectrons. Thick concrete walls surrounded them, soundproof and secure. The space was cozy and, above all else, safe.

Several levels down from the world above and a few rooms in, Danse seemed to relax, his posture loosening. He sat on the single bedframe shoved against a wall, pulled a bottle of whiskey out of a pack under the bed, and offered it to John. John took the bottle and twisted the cap off. He swallowed a few mouthfuls of harsh alcohol, still standing. Despite the openness of their arrangement, it felt rudely presumptuous to sit next to Danse on the bed. His stomach twisted nervously. Fuck. Why? This wasn’t their first time. He handed the bottle back and shoved his hands into his pockets, fingering the chem containers that promised gentle relief from his concern.

Danse took a long draught from the bottle before placing it on top of a cabinet. He took a deep breath and looked back at John. “I want you to know that this is not a habit of mine. Of finding men and…”

“Seducing them?” John offered, a grin pulling at one side of his face.

A red blush darkened Danse’s neck and spread across his face. “I’m…afraid I’m not very good at this type of thing.”

“I believe that.” The admittance made John relax a bit. He slung his pack into a corner and cracked his neck, trying to pop anxiety free.

Danse opened his mouth. He hesitated before asking, “May I…kiss you properly?”

“Well, shit, man. Folks don’t normally ask first,” John jested. When Danse gave a small flinch, John quickly followed with, “Yeah. Sorry. Sure.”

Danse stood and took John’s head in one large hand. He regarded John’s face before pressing their mouths together. John slid a hand from his pocket to reach up and grasp the bomber jacket’s collar, pulling them closer. Danse’s lips were full and soft, if dry. His stubble scratched lightly against John’s bare face as they kept it chaste and light. The kiss wasn’t terrible. It was nice, and a hell of a lot better than what they had managed in Virginia. Most of that had been fervent mouth-mashing without passion. 

As John’s heart pounded painfully in his chest, he placed his hands on Danse’s hips, fingers sliding into the belt loops of his pants. The soldier broke away, lips parting, his dark eyes half-lidded as he shrugged out of his jacket. Danse wasted no time reaching over his head to pull his shift off, revealing swells of muscle and a thick patch of chest hair that tapered into a line that lead into his pants. Danse’s body was dusted with scars, neat holes and wide slashes. He balled the shirt up and discarded it, two thin steel tags swinging on a chain around his neck, their centers glowing bright blue. He reached to pull John’s shirt up. Swallowing a rise in his throat, John let go of him and stepped away.

“I…I’m sorry,” Danse said, flustered, dropping his hands. “I thought –”

“No. It…it’s okay.” John grasped the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, folding it once over his arm before setting it aside. His breath shook as he let it out. He folded his arms to hide the track marks on the inside of his elbows and turned around. Thin for his height and dressed only in wide-legged pants, combat boots strapped up the ankles and his flag looped around his middle, he felt incredibly self-conscious, bony, hairless, and unattractive. Being with another man, it was hard not to compare. Danse was a solidly built specimen who clearly cherished taking care of his body.

Danse stepped closer and pressed a warm palm to John’s chest. His brows furrowed, and he dropped his hand to walk around John in a meticulous circle, studying him. “You’ve never been injured,” he stated.

“What?” John looked down at himself. He noted, for the first time, his lack of the standard marks of gashes and bullet holes so common among others. Smooth, pale skin covered his body, unblemished. “I guess.”

“How is that possible?”

John lifted one shoulder and tilted his head, still slightly uncomfortable. “Maybe I’m just lucky.” He wanted to squirm away from Danse’s touch, the warmth of it imparting a sense of comfort that John wasn’t accustomed to. The lure of it was making him jumpy.

“Alright, this is stupid. Hang on,” he said, angry at himself. He backed away and reached into a pocket. He pulled out a canister of Jet and shook it.

“You take chems?” Danse frowned, watching as he took a drag of Jet.

John held the smoke in his lungs before blowing it out. “Only sometimes,” John lied, the vapor making his voice scratchy. Now was not the time for honesty. “This’ll be better for the both of us if I’m not overanalyzing everything.” On behalf of Danse, he took another draught of whiskey to wash the taste of Jet from his mouth. No one could say that he wasn’t considerate. “Figured that this might be tit-for-tat and now it’s my turn. Not that I ain’t game, but this is…kinda uncharted territory for me.”

Danse looked surprised. “Is it? But…In Alexandria…”

Waiting for that blessed fog to cloud his senses, John pocketed the inhaler. “Not that I didn’t enjoy pounding you up against a wall, but I thought that was kind of a contained incident. A chance to do something I hadn’t before. Thought about it plenty, sure, but up until then? Was only something I imagined.”

“And you’d…let me do that to you? Are you sure that’s what you want?” Danse was understandably confused, yet admirably patient. “Would it help if we talked first?”

John rubbed at his face with his hands. The metal in his rings felt cold as they passed over his cheekbones. It was slightly cooler down here than above ground, and his back had goosebumps. He sighed in relief as the Jet hit him, slowing the tumult of his mind, feeling an almost palpable weight lift from his shoulders.

Danse had been the first and only man that he had shared a sexual encounter with. But he was no introvert. Rather than utilize words, John stepped closer and took both of Danse’s hands in his, placing them against his body. He ran reverent fingers over the plane of Danse’s broad chest, brushing over coarse, dark hair, intoxicated by the sight of him. He had never touched anyone like Danse before, squeezing at hard muscles instead of soft curves. John traced a wandering finger along the line of dark hair that led from his navel down, causing Danse to shudder. Danse ran his hands up John’s sides, over his chest, down his shoulders, fingers barely brushing skin. There was slowness to it, painstakingly attentive, as if he had picked up on John’s nerves, careful fingers leaving a yearning in their wake.

A scar rippled along one side of Danse’s collarbone. John leaned forward to breathe hotly over the old wound, daring to drag his lower lip across it before taking a few choice bites at the flesh of his shoulder with gentle teeth. Danse tasted faintly of salt coupled with the subtle tang of metal, and he shivered at the graze of John’s teeth. Danse tipped his head up as he slid hands under John’s arms and up his back and John scraped his teeth over the other man’s throat. Danse pulled roughly at John’s hair and, abruptly, their positions switched. He felt a tugging as Danse fiddled to remove the flag from around his waist. John’s hands fell to stop him. As Danse’s mouth sucked on his neck and under his jaw, John slipped the flag from his waist and coiled it around one hand. He broke contact with Danse’s full lips long enough to carefully place the flag next to the whiskey bottle and then was back again, initiating a few teasing attempts before allowing Danse to capture his mouth once more.

This second kiss was different, hungry and hard work, trying out angles and pressure, John’s tongue invading Danse’s mouth. Hands on John’s hips, Danse pulled him, changing where they stood, and drove him gently backwards until the edge of the bedframe caught John in the back of his knees. He released Danse’s plush mouth and sat. Danse towered above him for a span of a few heartbeats before sinking to his knees on the bunker floor. He pressed against John’s chest until he lay fully back.

John didn’t know what to do with his hands. He pressed them, palms inverted, against the crumbling concrete wall behind his head. His heart hammered against his ribs. As Danse lips grazed his abdomen, breathing hot air on his stomach as he left a trail of searing kisses, John surrendered, twitching, aching, more aroused than ever, wanting and willing Danse to do anything he desired to him.

Danse raised his head, looking John purposely in the eyes, imploring for a sign that he should continue. John nodded so hard his teeth clacked. When Danse rose, John assumed it would be to remove his pants. Instead, he rifled through the pouch atop the cabinet, pulling out what looked to be a red square of plastic. John’s hurried breathing slowed. A chem packet? No, it couldn’t be.

To fill what had become an ungainly pause, Danse said, “I’ve only been intimate with one person. Well…two now.”

John wouldn’t have called what happened in the alley intimate. “So, what’cha got there?” Danse flashed him the item. A red Jimmy Hat condom. Guess the Brotherhood had access to more than just snazzy power armor. “How romantic.”

“It’s prophylactic.”

As his erection flagged, John almost called the whole thing off. He felt like someone’s dirty shoe asking, “This isn’t ‘cause of you…this is ‘cause of me, right? I’m the kind of guy that takes to fuckin’ strangers in dark alleys.” John slumped on the bed and rolled his eyes. Disgust swirled and he wanted to roll under the mattress and hide. The red marks trailing down his forearms were visible for the world to see. “Shit. And now you know about the chems.” He wasn’t stupid enough to have shared needles in the past but realized how wildly reckless he appeared. 

Danse sighed and settled to his knees again. He ran a hand over John’s thigh and looked him in the eye. “I don’t mean for this to be a sermon. This…this isn’t something I do. I want to trust you. But I can’t gamble any more than I already have. Can you respect that?”

With a lengthy sigh, John reached down to run fingers through Danse’s dark hair. The Jet made Danse’s locks feel cloud-soft. “I feel you.” 

“Good.” Giving a mischievous smile, Danse’s thick fingers worked John’s pants down. “Then let me get to work.”

John gave in and let Danse take the lead. Their last time had been in a dark alley, with little chance of seeing each other again. The act had been clumsy and rushed, fire in all its harshness. This experience was very different. This was careful and unhurried and generous. While their one previous time had focused on Danse, this time was all about John’s need, and the things done both for him and to him. Danse was such a polite bed-mate, always asking if John was alright, checking in on him until John told him to shut up and enjoy himself. That bit of permission seemed to be just what Danse needed to gain full confidence. Had they not been encased in concrete, the noises they made would have surely drawn attention. The sensations left John quaking and screaming the names of deities that he didn’t believe in, thinking at times that he might just die and that would be an acceptable cost for the amount of ecstasy he felt.

In the aftermath, he lay on his back, their legs tangled, Danse’s substantial weight on top of him. “Gonna…have to request a bigger bed next time,” John remarked as his chest heaved.

“Next time?” Danse’s breath tickled the sweat cooling in the hollow of his throat. John playfully raked his nails down his back in reprimand for being cheeky. Danse hissed at the slight pain and claimed John’s mouth again, growling into it. John’s hands drifted back up to twist Danse’s hair, drawing him deeper into the kiss. Danse broke free with a wet pop and nuzzled into John’s neck. “I’ve never…been in the more experienced role,” he panted. “Was…was it all right for you?”

 _Everything I’d hoped for and nothing like the horror stories I’d heard of_ , seemed like a huge admission. Throughout his entire sexual history, he had never been on the receiving end of such a vigorous fuck. He needed a cigarette. “Was pretty damned perfect,” was the answer John settled on. “Think I might be a convert.”

“When did you know?” the soldier asked, running his fingers through John’s long hair, his breathing steadying. “That you were…that this is what you wanted.”

John experienced a fleeting sense of melancholy, but he could only feel so bad with someone stretched out in post-coital bliss on top of him. “Not wanted as much as… _wondered_. I had a friend. We were too close. I…misinterpreted things between us.”

He felt Danse nod. “And the friend?”

John shook his head, mind pulled to memories best forgotten. “Gone now.”

“I…I can sympathize with that.”

John took a deep breath and focused on where he was. It sucked that his pants were across the room. He really could use that cigarette. “You?” he asked in turn. Danse sat up and moved to settle against the bedframe. John pushed himself up as well, resting his back against the cool concrete wall behind him. He threw his legs across Danse’s lap, comfortably naked, with his anxiety long gone.

Danse settled one hand on John’s thigh, rubbing it his thumb back and forth absentmindedly. His face was serene, a far-off look in his eye. “Always? In the Brotherhood, there are no staunch rules condemning such conduct. I suspect the Elders don’t wish to think of it. Most of the guidelines for decorum tend to focus on rank.”

 “Why look for me?” John probed, watching Danse’s face. “You seemed to be adamantly against doing this kinda thing again.”

This seemed to finally make Danse the uncomfortable one. He averted his gaze and said, “I suppose I am who I am to the core. I can fight it, or I can control it. Have...interludes. And, if I’m to be perfectly candid…you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I’ve enjoyed thinking of you.”

“Ha!” John barked, tossing his head back. He instantly felt better. The man’s frank, mechanical manner of speech was wonderfully refreshing – a stark contrast to the carefully calculated way people in the Upper Stands talked. Repression seemed like an awful idea, but if that was how Danse wanted to live his life, far be it for John to judge.

“Why _me_?” Danse asked, his turn, raising his brown eyes to meet John’s.

Somehow, the answer made John’s mood shift right back to gloom. His smile was rueful, the edges cracking. “You...well…you looked like you were hurting. Like you might have been me in a different body. Like I… _knew_ you.” He shook his head and shrugged. “Maybe that sounds dumb but...there it is.” Guilt crept in. Danse was nothing but courteous, his eyes too damn sincere and John couldn’t help but to be intrigued. This short trip was meant to be a way of ditching his responsibilities at home, nothing more. He hadn’t expected to actually _like_ the guy.  

Danse’s free hand moved across the span of air between them to smooth John’s hair, the other remained on his leg, squeezing. “I’d like you to,” he said. “Know me, I mean. The next three days are yours.”

John smile grew a little more substantial. They talked until they found themselves blinking to stay awake. Without sunlight or clocks, it was impossible to tell what time it was. John finally got his smoke and they redressed in loose clothes to retire, though it was clear that they couldn’t share the same narrow bed. When Danse unfurled his bedroll on the floor, John interceded. “Dan...you don’t have to do that. You’ve been good enough to me. That’s kinda freaking me out.”

A laugh rumbled in Danse’s chest. “I’ve endured harsher accommodations.”

Seeing as he liked being comfortable, John didn’t argue.

They repeated much of the same activity over the next few days, along with hunting and cooking. Both learned as much as the other was willing to share and that was good enough. Danse rigged the listening post equipment to carry a secure channel so that they could contact one another again without the risk of relying on open frequencies. On their final night together John pulled his pillow and blanket from the bed and curled up with Danse on the floor.

The remainder of John’s chems went untouched, a fact which he didn’t realize until he was on his way home.


	4. The Good Soldier

DANSE

Listening Post Bravo, MA

December 25th, 2287

Dusk must have fallen once again, although Danse had no way to verify that notion while inside of a structure with no windows. Silence was an invariable companion, a continuous reminder of his seclusion. The last few days had been the longest and most despairing of his life. He had neglected to contact Haylen, unsure of what to say.

Returning to Bravo had, so far, been a wise choice. While quiet and uneventful, Danse still took refuge by remaining in the furthermost portion of the shelter. At some point over the last decade, the subterranean levels of the bunker had begun to collapse, compiling mounds of earth and shattered concrete into corners where the rear living area stood and sending a stench of mildew to pervade the air. By some stroke of luck, the equipment still worked. Outside, and in the foremost room, he had covered his bases the only way he knew how – through absolute overkill with both Protectrons and turrets powered with their safeties off. There was no telling how many of his former brethren would come for him.

In that half-crumbled rear room, he sat in an old office chair, still dressed in his uniform and hood, staring blankly out of the wide window that separated his section from the fortified room beyond. His laser pistol sat on the desk in front of him, a last round in the fusion cell. Strong fingers circled his temples, trying to relieve the strain, a pressure that had been building since his flight from the Glowing Sea. Danse felt overwhelmed by events. Hands shaking as he buried his head in them, he fought a nauseating wave of helplessness.

Why hadn’t Maxson simply summoned him to the Prydwen and detained him there? That was the action Danse would have taken, had their roles been reversed. Instigating a manhunt would thin their already strained numbers and divert energies away from any number of important tasks. The again, Maxson did enjoy swift and permanent solutions to his problems. As is, Danse stood little chance finding a solution to his qualm. If he was recognized, he would be instantly killed. He couldn’t blame his brothers for pursuing him – orders were orders, and Danse would have followed them himself without question had he received word that one of their ranks had been identified as a synth.

God. That word again. _Synth_. Not that God played a part in this. A virtuous man, although not particularly pious, Danse felt crushed under the weight of his predicament. He would have prayed for a solution if he was any less logical. This was the doing of Man and, human or machine, he was caught in the middle of it. If all of this were true, he represented everything that the Brotherhood stood against and his end would be destined to mirror Cutler’s.

Danse had seen synths, the new kind, laid out on gurneys as they were dissected, displayed as a lesson for those in the field, and he recalled part of Maxson’s ascension address from years ago. The new Elder’s word had echoed, amplified by the towers walls of the Citadel.

_“Never trust anything that isn’t Brotherhood. The Wastes lie. The people out there beyond the walls of the Citadel, they don’t require our consideration. They aren’t worthy. They’re ravaged by radiation, driven mad and dangerous. They would have you believe that they are equal to us, they we owe them a debt, that corpses and robots should look you in the eye and have you lay down your arms in mercy. Those abominations don’t deserve pity, don’t deserve the chance to betray you. They deserve one thing – absolute obliteration. And the people…they’ll get what they’ve wrought.”_

Running had been irrational. As was soaking up every package of RadAway he could find, prolonging his life for no reason to rectify his voyage through the Sea. How many of his brothers would fall trying to exterminate him? How many would he have to kill to preserve his own life? The thought turned his stomach.

Struggling with conviction, Danse retrieved his laser pistol. He ran gloved fingers down the barrel, wondering if he could still make this right, if he could take that drastic route that would spare his brethren. No matter what he was, the final round in his weapon could easily be used to end his existence. Synths dropped just as easy as humans. A simple shot to the head would do it…

Sucking air, he hastily tossed the weapon onto the desk before him, its grip knocking against the terminal that sat there. The temperature seemed to drop, and a chill crept through him at how close he had come to making another foolish decision. Gritting his teeth, Danse stood and pushed the chair back. He paced a few steps in one direction, turned and paced back. He was hungry and tired and yet none of that mattered if he wasn’t real. His very existence gnawed at him, the not-knowing, the uncertainty. As the days had dragged on during his desperate flight north, he’d felt caught between absolute belief in Brotherhood intel and the shock in his soul that made him deny it. His fists balled, and he wished to God that his brothers had shot him and removed this spirit-crushing doubt. In that frustrated moment, he slammed his hand down violently, pounding the desk.

The terminal screen woke at the jostle. A date blinked in blue-green letters. _November 11, 2282._

Danse’s tense expression dropped. He brushed fingers over the terminal keyboard. Here it sat, the communication conduit that had served him well for years. A remote server that he had been lucky enough to stumble upon during his initial visit here. Through it, he had been able to reroute message after message to find its way to him, whenever he was stationed. But this date – he had never accessed anything dispatched on that day.

An explosion rocked the bunker, sending sediment raining down from above. The one of the mounted turrets outside must have been blow to bit. Danse’s heart wanted to leap from his chest. This was it. The fear he felt was embarrassing.

A second blast from above. A third.

The date on the terminal pulsed, beckoning.

These might be his last few moments on Earth.

He played the message.

_“God, Dan, I...I fucked it all.”_

It was John’s voice from a lifetime ago _._ Danse laced his fingers over the back of his head and bit into his lip, feeling as if all the air had been sucked from the room. The elevator pinged, on its way up, and he knew that his brothers would be upon him shortly.

 _“Everything fell apart. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I couldn’t even see it. Right in front of my goddamned…”_ There was a shaky breath. John continued, tears in his voice. _“I’m sorry. Can we go back? Can it all just go back? Fuck. I shot it all to hell. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I’m doing. I hate this. I hate everything that I’ve become. I don’t even recognize me. I never wanted this. Not any of it.”_ There was a pause, trailed by a long exhale. _“I don’t know what to do. Everything is gone. Everything I’ve worked for…my family…my city…you. And it’s all because of me. Shit. Shit. I’m sorry.”_

The message ended.

They’d never used pet names, the sickeningly sweet kind that lovers favored. It had always been _pal_ , or _friend_ , or _Dan_. _Brother_ had been off-limits, due to both Danse’s faction involvement and the peculiarity of using it while in a sexual relationship. The only name Danse used at all was _John_. All this was from a lifetime ago…or from leftover pieces of the real Danse’s life. What if his entire existence was a lie? Had that man – his doppelganger –died so that this Danse could parade about in his image?

From the other side of the wide window, he heard the ding and grind of the elevator door as it open. Danse took the laser pistol in his hand once more and flipped the charge on. He pressed the muzzle to his temple. Whomever the Brotherhood sent should watch him pull the trigger, to know that he was a good solider up until the end, that he could uphold the Brotherhood’s beliefs, no matter the momentary waver he’d endured. His life wasn’t his own, never had been. He was property of the Brotherhood.

Or the Institute. 

Leading with his shotgun, John Hancock flew out of the elevator. He dodged a blast from the wall-mounted turret and fired a wide spray of pellets at the area. A crash and puff of smoke from one side of the window frame proved that he’d hit his mark. The thin ghoul was a diminutive target darting around the bunker’s equipment, blowing holes in the clunky Protections before they even got out of their partitions.

With the defenses down, John glanced around wildly and locked eyes with Danse, framed in the window, the pistol still at his head. His look of grit and abandon melted away into pure shock, dark eyes widening. He hurried straight towards the window and threw himself at the glass, banging a palm against the plane. “Don’t you move!” he ordered and rushed around the corner.

Danse froze dumbly. The laser pistol shook lightly as a tremor built in his body. John. Of anyone to show up, it was cruel for it to be John. The muzzle of his weapon drooped as he turned.

John stood in the gapping maw of the hole in the wall, a slight figure bathed in the florescent light of the bunker, which gave his sallow skin a greenish tint. He was a gaunt shell of the man Danse had known. The angles of his face were sharp as knives. His eyes, fully encompassed in black sclera, had sunken into hollow sockets. He had one hand raised, pleading. His wrecked voice was soft as he said, “Dan…I know.”

“Is it real?” Danse whispered. It was hard to breathe.

“Yeah, pal.” John gave a gentle nod. “It’s real.”

“Alright.” Danse inhaled and returned the gun to his temple.

John took a cautious step forward. “Shit. Don’t do this.”

“I’m not here,” Danse said in a conspiring whisper, his finger playing over the trigger. “They programmed me to think I am, but I’m not.” Tears sprang to his eyes, blurring his vision. “One of my brothers called me by a serial number. M7-97. It’s all over. I can’t fix this.”

“Maybe,” John said, risking another step. He crept in as he spoke. “But you didn’t come all this way just to pack it in. You ain’t done yet.” Danse didn’t answer him. John was only an arm’s length away now. “Dan…don’t make me watch you do this.”

He hated hearing his own name coming from the ghoul. His gravelly voice made it sound dirty, mocking in his throaty tone. This was not _his_ John. Danse almost said something unforgivable about John. It rose in his throat, wanting to come out. His hurt and confusion was bubbling over and he needed to direct it somewhere. Too aware of his own body, Danse felt his flesh crawl. “All that tech – it’s in me. I can feel it. Microscopic wires and polymer tubing and metal grafts. Each beat of this treasonous heart is a lie. Artificial blood pumping through plastic veins. I feel it burning like battery acid and I can’t…I can’t stand it!”

In a dangerous wager, John narrowed his eyes and placed the barrels of his shotgun to the underside of his jaw, challenging Danse. “Kay, then. Let’s do this. We’ll go together.”

Danse’s heart, real or not, thudded heavily. He would never goad someone into taking their own life, even John’s half-life as a ghoul. Several emotions filtered through him all at once – rage, despair, utter loneliness – and his body shook. If he wasn’t the real Danse, all his memories of John were fake. Or were they? When had this lie begun? “The person that you were with, I’m not him,” Danse tried to explain.  “The real Danse is dead. That’s how it works.”

The shotgun barrels scratched John under the chin as he shook his head. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about synths beyond killing ‘em. Stop being your idiot self and we’ll figure this out together.” His expression changed, conviction shifting to compassion. “Dan, c’mon. I’m a safe place.”

John was right, and Danse cursed his ignorance. He knew nothing of synth construction or programming. The only thing he did know was the danger they represented. But…he didn’t feel treacherous or conniving. On the contrary, he felt crushed that he’d somehow managed to betray the Brotherhood and now held John, who’d come to help him, in a stalemate. Synth or not, killing himself was a terrible way to solve this issue.

He gasped an unsteady breath and dropped the pistol. John mirrored him, shoulders sagging in relief. They stared at each other, gasping now that their standoff was over. Nerves still firing, Danse felt a queer twisting in his gut and he shook, truly afraid. He gawked at the ghoul, his mind in turmoil. This crude facsimile was as close as Danse would ever get to _his John_ again. And, in that moment, there was no one else that he wanted to see more.

Not able to withstand the shift in his reality any longer, something inside of Danse shattered. He reached for John, enveloping him into a crushing embrace. He dropped heavily to his knees, dragging John with him to the cold, concrete floor. John froze stiffly, arms pinned at his sides as the floodgates opened and Danse began to sob, his warm tears saturating the ghoul’s ruffled shirt. There was no elegance to it – he gulped and blubbered, voice hitching in grand cries as his body shuddered. Gradually, John shifted, placing his cheek atop Danse’s hooded head. They may have stayed like that for hours, or merely minutes. It was impossible to tell. When it was over, John indulged him while he struggled to regain his composure, gasping air and forcing his eyes to remain open. Danse released him, sinking back with his legs folded under him.

John frowned up at the terminal on the desk. “You finally heard it?” he asked.

Still sucking shaky breaths, Danse said, “The…message on the terminal. I…I never thought to check it. After what happened…I didn’t expect to hear from you.” He cupped his forehead in his hands and dipped his head. “I’m a monster.”

John’s face fell into his line of sight, blinking at him with eyes like polished onyx. His brows creased on his withered face. “Aren’t we all?”

Danse’s throat still felt tight. Incredulous, he shook his head at John. “Why can’t you hate me? You have every reason. What I’ve done to you, put you through, made you become,” he heaved, “and it may have all been for nothing. For no reason. Only to preserve lies. You have to hate me.”

John lifted one shoulder, a sad, half-formed smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Not my style.” John sat beside him, wrapping both arms around one knee. “An anxious lady in goggles sought me out. Imagine my surprise when she sent me _here_.”

“I…It felt safe.” The room shifted, memories tangling themselves in reality, good times mixed with the terror of the present. “I thought I was…human. And now, I’ve just made things worse. Everything is different, and wrong. I don’t know what to do. I…I’m afraid.”

“Well, Christmas fucking miracle that no one found you yet. Look,” John began, voice taking on a somber tone. “I know a thing or two about having one bad day change everything. Not gonna lie and say that it doesn’t matter or that things will be easy, but they do get better.” He stood and extended a hand. “Honest.”

Uncertain, Danse remained on the floor. John cocked his head and raised a brow. He took John’s gnarled hand and let himself be pulled up. They stood still with hands grasped, John’s ghoul heat warming Danse’s glove. John cleared his throat. “C’mon. Can’t stay here,” he warned, bending to retrieve his shotgun.

Danse felt so muddled and overwhelmed that it was wonderfully refreshing to let someone else tend to him. He allowed John to lead him back through the hole in the wall, into the elevator, and up to the surface, never letting go of him. The weight of words unsaid for years pressed down, heavy thought bubbles filling the bunker. None were necessary. This wasn’t the time.

It was raining outside; Danse could see the downpour through blown-out window frames. The black of night was a backdrop for falling beads of water illuminated silver by the white floodlights outside. They stopped in the frame of the doorway that led outside. Danse looked to John, apprehension stirring. John smiled, radiating reassurance. He recalled the last conversation they had shared, back when John still wore a human face. How Danse had responded to the last words that John said…it sickened him. Danse took a deep breath, opening his mouth –

A thin, whistling sound cut through the tempo of rainfall. A narrow projectile soared out of the deluge to knock John from his side. On instinct, Danse threw himself out of the doorway and out of the line of fire. He pressed his back to the wall and crouched, heart pounding. He gave a frantic glance in John’s direction and found the ghoul writhing on the ground, grasping at something protruding from his shoulder. Lightning flashed and Danse caught what it was – the feathered end of a crossbow bolt. Danse’s breaths came fast and harsh. The X-111 compound. Ingram’s weapon was meant for full-grown mutants and raging ferals. John was too small, the dosage too high. He was gasping, clearing struggling.

“Your armor was retrieved,” a voice called from out in the rain. “Had one hell of an audio recording between you and Haylen on it.”

_Rhys._

Rhys had found him.

Rhys had shot John.

“Everyone’s scattered all over the Commonwealth looking for you. No one else thought to step inside of your suit,” Rhys continued, a prideful smile evident in his voice. “But I did. When I get back to the Prydwen, I’ll take both your rank and your armor. Maybe even your ‘bird, too.”

John was no longer moving. Danse stared at his palm. Rhys had taken John from him while he had been holding his hand. He swallowed hard and felt the fool for leaving his retreat without a weapon. “Rhys, hold your fire,” Danse called over the roar of the rain. “I’m coming out.” He raised his hands and went to stand in the doorway.

Rhys stood alone in the deluge, the crossbow raised, metallic and gleaming. Falling raindrops struck the knight’s uniformed figure and exploded into a fine, reflective mist that framed his upper body. Danse stepped out of the relative safety of the bunker and out into the torrent, his hands still up. His uniform was soaked through in moments. “Knight, listen to me,” he beseeched as he approached. “A grievous error had been committed. I will return to the Prydwen with you so that we can reconcile this matter.”

“Christ – do you hear yourself?” Rhys spat. “You even talk like a robot.” He swung the crossbow to his back, where it adhered itself with a magnetic clank. A laser rifle replaced the bow, pointed straight at Danse’s heart. “And here you are, hiding out with a ghoul. No one knows a damn thing about you, do they? They will.” Rhys smiled menacingly, his eyes hard, water running down over face. “I’ll carve the words _dirty synth_ into your body…before or after I kill you. I’ll display your goddamned corpse so everyone knows what you are. Then, I’ll decide what to do with your freak buddy.” Thunder rolled, as if to drive Rhys’ point home.

Rhys’ slur struck a nerve in Danse, provoking anger **.** He had to eliminate the threat Rhys posed. Danse’s life no longer mattered. But John…John was faced with three options. If he was exceptionally lucky, Rhys would fire his next shot directly into the ghoul’s head. If he was less fortunate, Rhys would simply return to the Prydwen once his obligation with Danse was fulfilled, leaving John to die in his own time. The most likely outcome would result in Rhys claiming John’s body for science. Neriah had been quite vocal in wanting a ghoul specimen for her experiments and John’s transitioning body – half-ghoul, half-feral – would fit the bill perfectly. Being touted as a hero in the name of scientific progress would certainly earn Rhys additional merits, something that he would never shy away from. If the Brotherhood got ahold of the man that had dared to trust Danse with his heart, the scribes would be eager to cut him apart. John, the social warrior, would end as a case study in some scribe’s journal.

Danse stood before Rhys as the rain pelted them, searching for a solution. The freezing water ate through his uniform and chilled him to the bone. He couldn’t fathom killing one of his former brothers, no matter how fanatical he was. Thought he might not be able to kill Rhys, he could provoke him into making a mistake. **“** You’re a petty, dishonorable knight, Rhys. And if you think you can best me, you are sorely mistaken. That _freak_ is a better man than you could ever be.”

Rage boiling over, Rhys whipped his rifle stock at Danse’s face, striking his former superior across the cheekbone. Danse refused to stagger. He swung back, knocking the rifle from Rhys’ hand. He threw his body into the smaller man, squarely into his solar plexus, raising Rhys momentarily up and off the ground. Rhys gripped Danse’s shoulders, struggling to sink his knee into Danse’s diaphragm. The two orange-clad men fought, scrambling together in the mud, sliding and slipping. The crossbow dislodged and fell into the mire. Although similarly trained, Rhys was no physical match for Danse, who knew his moves and his weaknesses. He grabbed Rhys by the wrists, forced his arms down and swept the knight’s legs out from under him. Rhys fell backwards, the force pulling Danse down on top of him. Struggling and twisting beneath him, Rhys turned over, fingers curling into the wet earth as he tried to free himself. Danse pinned him facedown to the ground, one thick arm against the base of his neck, holding Rhys’ head down. Keeping Rhys restrained, Danse slid an arm around to the underside of his throat and curled both arms in, putting pressure on Rhys’ arteries. The struggle was brief. In seconds, the knight sagged in his arms. “Apologies, brother,” Danse said with sincerity as he released Rhys’ unconscious form to flop into the mud.

Danse retrieved the crossbow and stood, panting, the blow to his cheek stinging. The rain continued to hammer him. This must be what damnation felt like. If there was a place worse than this wet hell, he couldn’t imagine it. Rhys wouldn’t be out for long and there was no way to know if an additional patrol was on the way. He studied the crossbow, noting its lightweight design and elegant construction. It was a beautiful piece, deadly, and an easy tool for clearing ghoul settlers from any desirable settlement. In his mind’s eye, he saw a probable future in which the Brotherhood held the Commonwealth hostage, their might crushing anyone that dared stand in opposition, saw them primed to take the Enclave’s place as foolhardy saviors.

His strong hands snapped the crossbow’s limbs from its barrel. The pieces dropped back into the mud.

He turned and ran back to the bunker, into the recesses of the front room. He had to retrieve John, even without knowing what he would do. He had no medical supplies with him. Falling to John’s side, he yanked the bolt from the ghoul’s shoulder. Its barrel was empty and Danse tossed it aside. Though he shook John, he didn’t wake. John had lost his hat and, without it, looked like any other ghoul. Danse couldn’t stand that. After pawing in the dark, he recovered the tricorn and tugged it back onto John’s crown. Rustling through John’s attire, Danse unbuckled his shotgun scabbard. He secured it around his own chest, sheathed the shotgun in it, and stooped to gather John’s body in his arms. The ghoul’s limbs seemed to unravel as Danse stood; his arms and legs hung long and loose, head lolling back. He weighed nothing, just bones and decimated skin. He held John tightly to his chest, stealing a moment before setting out into the storm.

There was only one safe place for those who found themselves lost.


	5. Itch

JOHN

Goodneighbor, MA

December 3rd, 2277

“Well, well,” that smug voice drawled. “Looks like the pretty boy just can’t keep away.”

A haughty smile slid onto John’s face. “See, Finn – you already know me so well,” he cooed, handing over his revolver for safekeeping. John’s weapon joined many others secured to a rack inside the front gate with plastic ties. A bin full of grenades sat on the ground. John had forgotten where he had acquired the gun. Could have been any number of places; the Commonwealth was dripping with firearms. He raised his arms as the burly gateguard began patting him down.

Although only his second visit, John knew the drill. Normally one to shun armor for slowing him down, John was strapped into heavy leather layers – not for the protection, but for the increased carrying capacity it granted him. His pockets were full to bursting, not with chems but with caps. Only a fool brought chems _into_ Goodneighbor. Only an even bigger fool used a method other than caps to pay for them. This was the kind of place that would string John up for ransom if anyone knew his last name. Luckily, city policy was to not ask questions.

“Still got the knife?” Finn asked, tapping the leather bracer on John’s left arm.

“You really gotta ask that?” John pulled the handle out just enough to confirm its presence. The singular reason that knives were allowed in Goodneighbor was for basic self-defense and squabble-settling among the drifters. Vendors and operators were less likely to be robbed at knifepoint, while a gun could put an end to commerce. Being allowed to carry your gun openly was a right reserved solely for those closely associated with a guy named Vic, the iron-fisted boss that ran Goodneighbor. A drifter with a gun could challenge the authority of Vic, a challenge that was unlikely to end positively but would create cracks in command, nonetheless. Entry fees would go up and shakedowns would increase. The status quo was the best option for Goodneighbor. As bad as it was, it beat scouring the Wastes, chancing raiders, ferals or, worst of all, mutants, every time that you wanted a fix.

Finn extended his open palm. “Hundred-and-fifty.”

“It’s gone up,” John noted, fishing in one of his breast pockets. The entry tax had been one-hundred even last time.

“Times are tough. Can’t let the atmosphere suffer, m’I right?” He gladly took John’s caps, an entry fee that granted access to every type of vice there was, all contained within a few blocks.

“That’s what I come for.” Soaring skyscrapers and high-rises choked the sun, and perpetual twilight cloaked the town. A wealth of filthy mattresses lined the street on one side, a collection of whores of both genders were spread along the other, taunting each other and shouting at prospective customers. A raider, decked in the full protection of power armor, seemed to be the smartest person in town. Trash filled the street, ankle-deep at places. A few half-drunk or half-high trigger-happy patrolmen wandered the stalls and businesses getting their hands into the foodstuffs for sale and feeling up the whores, who giggled and squealed without sincerity.

Finn gave a barking laugh. “Enjoy yourself. Try not to die in our gutters.”

“Don’t intend to.” Eyes down, hands at his sides, John strode across the grounds, trying not to make undue eye contact with anyone in a foul mood. Several few gunshots echoed a street away. Someone obviously had less sense than John. A glass bottle fell, shattering in the street, the tinkling sounds echoing off brick buildings. John’s gaze tilted up, finding a rowdy bunch of Vic’s cronies hanging, plastered, out of the windows of the Old State House, bottles barely clutched in their hands, a clear indicator of where the falling bottle had come from. Most of them were brandishing guns at each other amid drunken dialogue.

It was hard for John to find who he was looking for while keeping his head down. He unobtrusively glanced at faces as he stepped over dirty mattress filled with drifters in various states of intoxication or chem-induced lethargy. All items prohibited by Diamond City decree rolled down to this palace of depravity. Some chems were undoubtedly dangerous to take on the streets, their effects leaving the taker helpless while they rode out their trip. John liked risk and adrenaline, not stupidity.

Something threw itself from a side alley, tackling him, clinging to his back. He tottered, almost falling and reached for his knife, thankful that Goodneighbor rules allowed for this bit of self-preservation.

“Boy oh boy, Johnny! You want it, I got it! Nobody’s got what I do! Meetcha in the District for a deal?”

“Oh, fuck, Cricket.” He slid his knife back into its sheath and undid her arms from around his neck. She slithered to the ground.

Although arms paid Cricket’s bills regularly, the gaunt tweeker had her finger on the pulse of the chem trade. She boasted that any idiot could sell an inhaler of Jet – or a reasonable knockoff – but let them try and get their hands on the rarer junk from the west coast. Her contacts were solid and had proven that she could deliver. After a few low-grade chem deals in the back alleys of Boston, John had learned of Cricket’s more exotic fare and immediately sought her out.

“C’mon, c’mon!” She tugged on his arm, pulling him back towards the gate. “I know you’re good for it. Got my stash of arms packed outside. No way I’m bringin’ the good stuff in here. Can you imagine? Well, I can. Walls’d be painted up past your ears in blood and bits.” She grinned manically as if picturing the bloodied streets in delight.

He planted his feet and dragged her nearer. “Not what I’m here for,” he said in a low voice. “Dig?”

The scrawny woman grinned, eyes wide and vibrant from within reddened circles. “Oh, yeah. I gotcha.”  She snatched his face in her hands, bringing him so close that he could smell the Jet on her breath. Her eyes darted feverishly as she searched his. “I can bring ya up, bring ya down, take ya places you’ve never been. Whatcha itchin’ for? Old favorite? New trip?”

For a bewildering moment, he wondered if she was planning to kiss him. That type of attention wasn’t foreign to him, but tweeky Cricket was merely a mean to his ends. He pried her hands off. “Show me what you got?”

“Right-o, right-o!” She took him by the wrist and marched down the narrow street, nearly colliding with a local thug. The brute raised his gun as she barked, “Hey, I’m walkin’ here!” Miraculously, they passed by without a beating. Cricket pulled John along as she walked, stating, “Rexford.”

They took a few left turns to get to the main drag with Cricket purposefully falling behind with each step. She ducked behind him to slip her hands into the pockets of his pants and press her chest into his back. He kept walking, clasping his hands over hers, preventing her from pulling anything out or her fingers from traveling where he had no desire for them to go. “Aw, c’mon,” she complained. “Make it look good.” John heard a woman screaming though the open window of a warehouse. He didn’t have to wonder at Cricket’s sudden affection. Pressed in tight to another man, the town’s goons were more likely to leave her alone.

She pulled away as they entered the hotel. The lobby was dotted with a few well-dressed visitors; John spotted the Blacks drinking and laughing at the bar with a woman he didn’t know. Relatively clean furniture and generator-charged chandeliers gave the foyer a touch of class amid the refuse of Goodneighbor. Some things were the same in all cities – those in power and affluence enjoyed the spoils while the rest of society fought for the dregs, but Goodneighbor put forth an honest face. Rexford remained a safe location for those, like Cricket, who could pay. An agreement with Marowski kept trouble out of the building, allowing the more prosperous townsfolk to live here full-time, while Vic’s party voluntarily remained in the State House. “You want a room?” the old woman at reception asked John in a bored voice.

“Nope. My guest,” Cricket answered, already leading the way upstairs. She strolled the hall, scratching at her neck until stopping at a door, looking both ways before she unlocked it. Opening the door, she jerked her head at the room. “In. Quick.” John glided in after her. She relocked the door from the inside, sliding a chair under the knob for good measure. “There.” Turning, she proudly smiled. She had lost more teeth than she currently had in her mouth. “Alright. Now, to business.”

John unbuckled his armor, leaving it in a heap on the floor, as she scampered about. She had obviously been here a while, entertaining various customers. The sheets of her dirty mattress were rumpled, and empty chem packaging and food wrappers were strewn over the scuffed and torn furniture. The glassless windows had long since been shuttered, sealing them in a dark tomb. Cricket scrambled about to light a few stumpy tallow candles. She located a tire iron and jammed the narrow end between two floorboards, wiggling it. “Whatchu looking for? Got a lead on somethin’ crazy – chem that’ll take you into fuckin’ orbit and leave you there. I can get it for you. Kinda one and done, though. It’ll melt yer face after.”

He made a face. “Sounds monumentally stupid. I’ll pass.”

“You’ll never know what yer missin’ then.” One of the floorboards popped up. She removed it and started hauling bags of chems from the hole beneath. “You like the weird stuff, right? Don’t blame ya. It’s the best.” She looked up at him expectantly, holding a bag open for him to peer down into. “So, what’ll it be?”

He found matter he was looking for and pulled a syringe filled with bright orange liquid. “This.”

“Daddy-O. Nice. So, you’ll be staying.” She pulled a vial of Psycho for herself and handed it to him. “That’ll do it for you?”

“Ask me again when I come out of it,” he instructed, placing a tall stack of caps on her table. Cricket grinned wickedly as she closed the bag and stuffed in back under the floorboard.

His chem selection would incapacitate him for a period, letting his mind drift as his body hovered in a half-asleep, half-tranced state. A romantic drug, Daddy-O was good for reflecting, letting a past event come to life on the tripper’s own terms. While under, John would be free to rearrange details from any occasion he wished. He wanted to remember his tall solider, to let that fuzzy feeling of tender contentment envelope him without the terrifying recreation of actuality that the Memory Den would bring. He didn’t want to recall the nerves and trepidation, only the man’s shy smile and ways they had touched. It would be weeks before they saw each other again, and John wanted to get lost in erotic reminiscence. This. This was how chems beat reality every time.

After placing both syringes on an end table, John sat on the bed. He unlaced his shirt, shrugging out of it, knowing that he would come to sweating and disoriented in a few hours. Cricket joined him, pulled her layers up and over her head, leaving her naked in her grimy bra from the waist up. John kicked off his boots and lay fully down, punching the pillow behind his head to fluff it. He crossed his ankles and extended his arm. “Don’t rob me. I’ll find you.”

“What do ya take me for?” she asked as she pulled a loose shoelace from her belongings. She tied it around his arm above the elbow. Uncapping the Daddy-O syringe, she pushed the air bubble free and guided the needle into his arm. The injection took no time. Guy would be so disappointed in him. His new soldier would be, too, John had no doubt. He took some small solace in the fact that neither of them would ever know.

Cricket took her own hit from the Psycho and lay next to him, her thumb over the dot in the crook of her arm. John closed his eyes as heat surged in his veins. He could feel her playing with his long blonde hair. “Don’t…molest me, either. That’s…rude.” His words were slurred and slow to form.

She patted his cheek. “See ya on the other side, Boy Scout.”

The rush took him, and he left his body behind.


	6. Back When

DANSE

Goodneighbor, MA

December 26th, 2287

By late night, or very early morning, the rain had tapered off, leaving yawning puddles half-filled with radioactive waste as hazardous obstacles, hindering Danse’s flight through the city. Despite his escape being fraught with horror, he hadn’t dared to put John down. Engaging in a fight with John helpless in his arms had been out of the question. It was luck and John’s clearly labeled safehouses that had gotten them this far unscathed.

Deep in the heart of what had been Boston’s Financial District, Danse slammed his shoulder at the steel door _,_ the impact jarring his bones. He threw himself at it a second time. The entry to Goodneighbor waggled on its hinges but held. Its mayor had done well on reinforcing his town. Danse readjusted his hold on the ghoul and granted the door a savage kick.

The entry swung open, the lamplight of Goodneighbor washing over Danse in a rectangular spread. A cluster of neighborhood watch members looked down their guns at him. The moment hardened as the group took in the sight of someone in Brotherhood orange holding their unconscious mayor. Fingers tightened on triggers. A woman with severe burn scarring, her remaining hair ginger, shoved past them to reach into Danse’s arms and try to pull John away from him. Their scuffling dragged Danse inside. She was yelling at him – he could see her mouth move – but whatever she was saying fell deafly on him. With some struggle, she peeled his fingers open, forced him to release John into her care. The bubble burst and sound came flooding back to him. “– you give him irradiated blood?” the woman was snapping.

“What?” The familiarity of shell-shocked stupor kept his brain muddled. “No.”

“Fuck. You don’t know one damn thing about ghouls.” Her eyes were lit with furious aim. “Did you dump him in a dirty river? Anything?”

Danse’s mouth hung open. He hadn’t even considered doing anything like that. In hindsight, it made perfect sense that an injured ghoul would need to soak up radiation. “I…it was never part of my training,” he lamely admitted. Danse felt there was no one left on the planet that he hadn’t disappointed.

She snorted in disgust and carried John away. He looked so frail in her arms, thin limbs dangling. The watch members looked to each other and thinned, returning to patrolling, though a few lingered to keep an eye on Danse at the entry. The door clanged shut behind him. He stood, disgraced, in the street. Pulling his hood off, he twisted it in his hands. Several drops of water dripped from the fabric to splash on the cobblestone street.

He was in a marketplace of sorts, lit by neon signage and string lights. A wide courtyard narrowed to a shadowy side street. Old world structures and reinforced walls surrounded the whole of Goodneighbor. Danse had never been here before, not even with Sterling. He knew of it, of course, and where to find it, the way he’d memorized every location in the Commonwealth. On the Brotherhood’s official regional map, Goodneighbor was crossed out and paid no mind, seeing as it wasn’t good for either tech or influence. It was, however, the kind of haven where a fleeing synth with a ghoul in tow could hide without the worry of patrols happening by. In that way alone, this culvert of a town was utterly perfect.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained staring down the flagstone street, but after a time the burned woman returned, unaccompanied. “You’ve brought one hell of a shitshow to town,” she stated. “My name is Fahrenheit. Follow me.” She held a door open on the positively ancient-looking building to his left. Danse shadowed her as she led him up a flight of stairs and into a room containing several couches and tables, still wringing his hood. He scanned the room, catching empty beer bottles, Jet inhalers, overflowing ashtrays and knew that he stood in the eye of John’s operating center.

Worry crept through him. “John? Is he…?”

“Stay here,” she snapped. “And don’t touch things that you shouldn’t.” She left him there, closing the doors on her way out. Her retreating footsteps rang through the funnel of the stairwell outside.

Unsure of his next move, Danse padded a circle around the room, a disorderly sort of office strewn with chems. With his head hanging down, he watched his regulation boots march across the dirt floor. He came to a stop so sudden it surprised himself. Draped in lies, he couldn’t stand his visage. The brothers and superiors had condemned him. _Shoot on sight_ was likely to be the standing order, especially in lieu of his escape from the Sea and his subduing of Rhys. He felt drained, weary to his bones and yet agitated, with nowhere to put his aggravations. Sickened, he fought the collar of his uniform and pulled the zipper down. He shrugged the suit off and yanked his arms free, pulling at orange fabric until it parted with him completely, attached boots and gloves going with it. Balling the uniform, he threw it vehemently to the floor, leaving him in only his skivvies.Exhaustion hit him like a missile slamming into a vertibird. He felt dizzy and spent, but his mind was full. In a rush of inspiration, he threw himself into ransacking the office, lifting stacks of papers, reaching into the backs of drawers and pulling up cushions, bare feet cautious of any stray needles. If anyone in this town stockpiled Calmex, it would be John.

Midway through a search under the sink, Danse froze. It struck him that he was on his knees in the middle of the night, in his underwear, looking for drugs in a city built on sin. He had fallen too far, too fast, and didn’t recognize himself. He straightened and stood, forcing a long, deep inhale. Crossing back to the center of the office, he pulled a blanket from the back of a couch, wrapped it around his waist and sat heavily on a sofa. The tags around his neck bounced against his chest. He rubbed at his face and felt miserable. The blank sanctity of sleep had eluded him since his discovery and although his head didn’t ache, he felt fuzzy around the edges, unfocused and unsure. He readjusted the blanket, pulling it over his head as he lay down, ineffectively hidden, curling up in an infantile manner. The blanket smelled like chems, smoke and John. He closed his lids, just wishing to rest his eyes.

Something heavy landed with a muffled thud near his feet and he pulled the blanket from his face. Fahrenheit had tossed a box stuffed with clothing onto the couch. Danse sat up and ground his knuckles into his eyes before he could see straight. As the woman looked down her nose at him, he felt the slightest stirrings of recognition. Although many years had passed, he was able to place her. “I’ve seen you,” he said, sitting up with the blanket wrapped tight around him. Nudity around women made him uncomfortable, though nudity around men was worse. “You’re one of the survivors John pulled from that burning freighter in Atlantia City.”

“And you’re one of the assholes that did nothing about it.” Her expression was pure venom.

His jaw slammed shut. Briefly, he regretted the Brotherhood’s decision. The order had been to let it burn. John, true to form, had concocted other plans…

Wandering to a side table, Fahrenheit retrieve a can of purified water. She tossed it underhand at him and he deftly caught it. “Look, my intent on bringing him here tonight…” he started but faltered. Per usual, he didn’t really know what to say. He cracked the top of the water and gratefully drank. His thirst surprised him.

“ _Tonight_? Friend, you’ve been in here for twenty-six hours.”

Danse choked on his water. “What?” he sputtered, splashing a little down his chin. “What are you talking about?”

A slight hint of amusement cracked her exterior. “You were out cold. Boss said I should leave you.”

Had he truly been asleep since arriving? The light had certainly shifted, turned bright between the boarded-up windows. Danse was more than astounded, as he’d never slept so long in his life. He felt clear-headed and calm, no longer poised for disaster. “Your boss, he –”

“Sure soaked up a dose of something nasty. Luckily, ghouls bounce back fast.” She brought a knee up to nudge the box before crossing to a desk. “Get dressed. And bathe. This is a civilized city. You smell like sweat and desperation. Here –” she picked up a holotape and waved it, then tossed it back on the desk “ – read this when you’re ready. It was left for you.”

Taking the box with him, a watchman directed him up to a temporary residential area, littered with mattresses and wash basins. Soon, Danse found himself clean and dressed like a drifter in worn shoes, ripped jeans, a threadbare white tee and brown plaid shirt, unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up. There were a few boxes of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes in the carton as well, which he made short work of. He discovered a serving tray and held it up to examine his face. In the reflection, was able to inspect a bruise on his cheek from where Rhys had punched him. Robots couldn’t bruise. He didn’t know what to think anymore and felt the warning throb of a migraine. He would have left Goodneighbor to pursue answers if he had any idea of how to get them. Even if he managed to contact Haylen, there would be a limited amount of information that she could give him. This cesspool was currently his residence. At least for as long as John would permit it. That holotape waited for him downstairs, but he was hesitant to look at it. The odds if it containing good news were slim.

From a level below, he could hear John now, back in the office that Danse had left. “Hold up. Maybe I’m too beat or too high. What are you trying to sell me on, again?” John’s voice had always carried a certain rasp. Now it had been wrapped in barbed wire and raked over gravel. He did sound tired, tone skirting a _fed-up_ kind of exasperation. Drawn by interest, Danse crept closer, taking gentle steps down the stairs as to not betray his position.

“Something only a man such as yourself could appreciate!” a man with a thick Boston accent exclaimed. “You’re a fine, upstanding gentleman, I can tell. Only the best for yer constituents, m’I right? Goodneighbor’s one of the main hubs in the Commonwealth. Course,” he laughed, “I don’t haveta tell you that! Stuff rolls through here first. Forgive me if I’m outta line, but Bunker Hill and Diamond City get the cast offs, the standard fare. Goodneighbor handles the exotic, and the expensive. The Mem Den, Rexford, running odd jobs,” he listed. “Lotsa options. Lotsa caps. And that’s cause’a you.”

“Yeah, word of my brilliance has traveled.” The office doors were closed, but the sarcasm in John’s voice carried. “Get to it.”

“Okay, okay. You’re cautious. I respect that. Man such as yourself’s gotta be. What I have for you today is nothing short of revolutionary. Are you ready? You look ready. Okay, here it is. Simplifying currency across the Wastes – the charge card!”

A beat of silence passed as Danse pressed up against the door. “You’re speechless. Yeah, I get that a lot,” the man continued. “Ambitious plan, I know. But you ain’t no stranger to ambition yourself. Whatcha say we barter a deal?”

“Ohh,” John’s voice drawled. “You’re _that guy_. Fahr?”

Danse yanked himself out of the way just in time for Fahrenheit to bang the doors open, hauling an average-looking man with a scarred face behind her. She threw the fellow down the stairs, causing him to skid to a stop on his palms. The man righted himself and snapped a few snarky insults at a watchman before stumbling down the rest of the stairway and leaving out the front door.

Catching sight of Danse, Fahrenheit gave him a smug, tight-lipped grin as she ventured back into the office. Danse peeked inside. John was sagging back onto one of the couches, lighting a cigarette. The formidable redhead stood at his side.

“Was that type of reaction entirely necessary?” Danse questioned, daring to enter.

“I see a steady stream of idiots every day,” John said, shrugging and flicking ash. “Being polite takes too much time.”

“Boss,” Fahrenheit cut in. “Those shipments at the docks aren’t going to sign for themselves. Envoy is waiting outside.”

John nodded. “Bring ‘em up.” She departed, leaving the two of them alone. “You okay?” John asked, his black eyes sharp. “She said you passed out hard.”

“I’m…adjusting.” Danse debated on whether or not to close the door, opting to leave it open. He regarded John, putting on airs in his ridiculous getup, hiding, acting the part of someone else. “You seem alright,” Danse said with an amount of grateful relief that stunned him. Aftershocks of fear from the previous night still clung to him.

“I’m high on Med-X. _Everything_ is alright.” John blew smoke and put his feet up on the coffee table, rubbing at the shoulder that had been struck by the dart.

Now that John was safe and back to his affairs, there was the matter of Danse’s own life. The State House terminal sat on a desk against a wall. The holotape, small and insignificant-looking sat beside it. Shifting nervously, Danse gestured to the terminal. “If you have a moment, there’s something I’d like to –”

“Sure, yeah.” John wasted a few moments running his palms over the thighs of his trousers before jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “But I still gotta –”

“Oh, of course,” Danse stammered and backed away, looking at the floor, knowing that he was imposing. “I…I’ll return later.”

“I’ll send for you.”

“I…yes. Alright.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

Danse wasn’t entirely sure. “I –”

The burned woman returned with a quartet of hard-worn men at her heels. Danse swiftly exited. Additional courts were held as the day progressed, eating John’s time and occupying the office. Inaction had never sat well with Danse and he took to wandering the State House to fill time. The watchmen in the building were very good at minding their own business, not hindering Danse but keeping gentle tabs on his whereabouts, eyes following him without commenting. During his exploration, Danse found that every filing cabinet in the State House was jam-packed full of articles, essays, drafts and contracts. He pulled a folder from the very back of one drawer. It was titled, _A Strategic Analysis of Southwest Statistics in Context to Both Militia and Contemporary Exchange_. The paper was credited to a _J. McDonough_ from Liberty Isle, New York. The date on it read _June 3, 2274_. Danse pulled a second folder from the top drawer of a cabinet nearest to the door. This one was recent and ascribed to a _J. Hancock_. The scrawling font was identical. He put both files back. It appeared as if John’s job was highly clerical. Danse was surprised that he was able to function this well given his obvious relapse into intense chem use. In all the years that had crept by, he’d had no idea what John was doing with his life. Then again, that was the agreement they had made, back when John had been stable and Danse had been happy.

The flow of caravaners and residents presenting their petty squabbles slowed as dusk approached and many of the watchmen went home for the night. Fahrenheit remained, getting new drifters settled as Danse returned to the office and peeked in. John was bent over the coffee table, twirling a pen in one hand and sucking on a Jet inhaler in the other, comparing hand-scratched notes to data contained in a stout ledger bound in sturdy leather. This was exactly how Danse had always pictured John at work – entering information into a page by lamplight, pouring over books and loose-leaf papers. By the faint yellow glow of the lamp, he looked a little less grotesque, just a man in an elaborate outfit, doing his job.

Softly, Danse knocked on the doorframe. John blinked up at him. “I…may have located your files,” Danse admitted. “You, well…you write better than you speak.”

John snorted, a corner of his mouth turning up. “Thanks ever so.”

Nodding to the terminal, Danse asked, “May I? I’m sorry, but…I shouldn’t wait any longer.”

“Yeah. Have at it.”

His footsteps felt heavy as he crossed the room and took a seat. He took a steadying breath and popped the holotape in the terminal. Green pixels flickered, and the screen went dark. Seconds later, the Brotherhood logo filled the screen. Danse cast a wild glance over his shoulder but John had his back to him, still working on his papers. Giving his attention to the screen, Danse found a file containing a report by Proctor Quinlan detailing his case. His DNA match, listing as missing from Institute, the Prydwyn in tumult, a rift in the ranks – no wonder Maxson had panicked. An image of Danse’s own face stared back from the other side of the screen. This is no misunderstanding – the Institute had a picture of him. That aspect refused to sit well. Information gathered about the Railroad was that they performed facial reconstruction on escaped synths almost immediately to avoid reclamation. It was clear that this M7-97 had never been in Railroad custody.

Danse powered the terminal down and sank back in his chair. His brain felt clogged with too much information and too many rampant emotions. Feeling overwhelmed and paralyzed, he found himself absentmindedly staring out of a crack in the shuttered window, watching the daylight fade into darkness.

Fahrenheit reappeared as evening grew late, literally pulling John away from his writing and forcing him into a plush armchair near the desk. “You’re done for the night, Boss.” She shoved a bowl of noodles into his hands. Danse’s own stomach rumbled as the smell of broth wafted. “You gonna head out for a midnight run?” Fahrenheit asked, collecting his papers and setting them in a stack atop a dresser. “Clear your head? Pick up something sweet, young and stupid?” Her suggestion made something rumble to life in Danse’s chest, making him upset, although he had no right to be.  

Staring into his noodles, John shook his head. “No. No midnight runs.”

Fahrenheit leveled a glance at Danse, making him squirm. He’d have rather melted into the floor than endure more scrutiny. “Then I’m off the clock,” she stated. “Try and stay out of trouble.”

“You know me,” John quipped, his chopsticks swirling his soup. The light from a tall lamp nearby made the gashes in his face look cavernous.

“That’s why I say it.” She closed the door after herself.

Danse became increasing aware that they were finally alone together again. His palms were sweating, and he brushed them over his shirt. John slurped a mouthful of noodles and, amidst chewing, waved his chopsticks at Danse.  “She knows you’re on the run from the Brotherhood,” he mumbled around his noodles, mouth full. He swallowed. “I told her.”

“You –” Danse broke off, feeling a sudden gust of betrayal sail over him. “Why would you –”

John set his noodles aside after the one bite and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees, looking at Danse with genuine concern. “I’m sorry for you. Really, Dan. _I am_. That was a shitty way to find out. But I’m not sorry that you aren’t with them anymore.” He smiled, a little sad, a little proud. “There could be a place for you here. Give my city a chance. It might surprise you.”

Choices were a luxury that Danse could no longer afford. He could, however, bet on Brotherhood disgust to keep soldiers away from Goodneighbor. Danse sighed and stood. “I’m…willing to survey the location. Show me what’s worth seeing.”


	7. A Ghoul Walks into a Bar

JOHN

Goodneighbor, MA

December 27th, 2287

When John had first jolted back into consciousness, he’d been disoriented. He’d awoken to find himself on a bedroll with a poultice on his bare shoulder dripping with orange sludge. Nausea tickled his insides and the slightest movement made him wince. Judging from the concentrated green glow crawling the walls, he’d been sent to the barrel room of one of his warehouse basements. The sealed concrete basement had been filled with leaking casks of radioactive waste and served as a type of a recuperative clinic for Goodneighbour’s substantial ghoul population. Simple injuries were cured by basking in the atmosphere while harsher wounds were treated by direct contact with the toxic substance. Lacking any type of true ghoul-doctor in the Commonwealth, John had established the barrel room almost immediately after taking Goodneighbor from Vic. A large number of ghouls that had taken up arms to fight beside him had needed the aftercare.   

He lay there for hours, drifting in and out of sleep, slowly piecing the timeline of the last few days together as his body healed. As his wits returned, he growled at a ghoul attendant – more of a spectator than a nurse – for an update. He was home and Danse was safe. There was no noise about Brotherhood activity in the District. All good news. He ditched his dressings, found his clothes and dragged himself outside where Fahrenheit had greeted him with a laundry list of neglected duties. Danse was secure and asleep and, even though his injury caused a lingering fog and made him feel _off_ , John had work to do, which kept him busy up until Danse’s request to tour the town.

Of all the scenarios that he had concocted to place himself and Danse in the same location at the same time, this was not one of them. Danse, on the lam from his faction, was not here willingly and as they walked side by side through the narrow streets of Goodneighbor he was frowning at his feet. Rain had passed through again and the streets were glistening, puddles reflecting the night sky. The smell of moist garbage lingered, one of the unavoidable consequences of city living. Danse grimaced under string lights that made his dark hair look frosted. He didn’t exactly tower over John, not like he had while wearing his armor. Danse was still six-foot two and well over two-hundred pounds, the same as when John had first met him. But although John still stood at five-foot nine, his ghoul body had dropped forty pounds, leaving him rail thin and especially gaunt-looking in comparison. “Thanks for not leaving me in that bunker,” said John, fishing for a conversation starter.

The corners of Danse’s mouth turned down even further. “Is this safe? My being seen?” he asked, pointedly ignoring the bait in John’s previous statement.

Because it cost him nothing to say it, John admitted, “I’ve been ready to be seen with you for a long time.”

Danse didn’t look any happier. “You aren’t you anymore. And I might not even be him.”

John had prepared himself, and this time Danse’s barb didn’t hurt. “I guess we’ll come to that.”

As they both stepped down into the familiar din of The Third Rail, John was home. At his appearance, several drifters and merchants alike raised their glasses and gave a brief cheer. He waved one hand through the air in response. “Hey, Chuck,” he raised his voice. “Two bowls of your best goddamned slop.”

“You flatter ever so, sir,” the robot muttered in a droll tone. It floated off to gather their meal.

As they seated themselves at the counter, John almost snickered aloud at how uncomfortable Danse looked, his shoulders all balled up, sizing up every individual in The Third Rail with wary eyes. “Nobody cares about your problems,” John whispered into his ear. “Believe me; they’ve all got their own. No one’s looking at you.”

Danse’s shoulders remained hunched. “Yes, they are. I’m with you.”

Almost on cue, Irma materialized between them, giving them both a warm smile. “Mr. Mayor.”

“Irma.” She hovered, waiting for an introduction. Damn her. “Um, Dan,” John replied, waving meekly at the seat next to him. “I mean, Danse.”

Irma’s face lit up and she took Danse’s hand in both of hers. “Oh, isn’t that splendid! Nice to finally put a name to the face.”

Danse’s thick brows lowered and he pinned John with a scowl. Heat rushed to John’s face and he would have blushed if it were possible. He made a face and a mental note to get his Memory Den deposit back.

As Irma departed with a swish of her bustle, Danse snapped, “What was that about?”

“Nothing. Business. Was just –”

Charlie rescued him by delivering their dinners. As they silently tucked in, Magnolia’s crooning started from the far corner, her notes cutting the tension. It wasn’t the most uneasy meal they had shared, but it certainly came close.

Sneaking glances at Danse while he ate his stew left John perplexed. There was a wild rumor that synths didn’t age. To see Danse now, under his scars and weatherworn skin, he looked exactly the same as when they had met. Then again, Danse had one of those faces that blurred normal notions as to what a man in his twenties or thirties should look like – he could have been either.

A voice nagged at him, telling John that he should be more upset at learning Danse’s background. But, so what? Whatever he was, Danse was deeply in trouble and John wasn’t about to kick someone once there were already down. If his Danse had been replaced and this synth knew it – if it had been confirmed that this was all a ruse and this wasn’t the man he’d met in Alexandria – he would have happily blown the copy away.

There was a ruckus in the VIP room. Voices rose and glass shattered, but no shots were fired. Marowski exited with a smug look on his face and a triggerman entourage. “Who is that?” Danse asked, apparently forgiving John enough to speak to him.

“Local scum,” John explained, poking at his half-eaten stew with a spoon sporting a dented handle. His appetite had fled. “Runs a racket in town that constantly keeps me on my toes.”

“Why not just be rid of him?”

He flicked the spoon at Danse, gesturing with it as if it were a switch meant for reprimanding. “Boy, those Brotherhood solutions sure run deep, don’t they? Not everything is that simple. Yeah, he’s a parasite, but it’s symbiotic. You dig?”

Danse set his cutlery aside and scowled into his empty bowl. “No. I don’t _dig_.”

Sighing, John stood and felt through his pockets. He deposited a pile of bottlecaps on the counter and nodded to Charlie. “I need Marowski’s caps. Won’t skirt around that. It’s what keeps the lights on, the sign lit, and the streets relatively clean.”

“Caps,” Danse snorted. “You Wastelanders have trivial priorities.”

“Careful with the insults,” John warned with narrowed eyes. “Seems like you’ve suddenly found yourself both impoverished and homeless. You’re gonna find yourself needing a fat bag of caps soon enough.”

Chastised, Danse was silent as he rose to join him. They wove through the bar together and back out onto the streets. As they rounded a corner, angling left to the wide main thoroughfare that housed the Mem Den and Rexford, a female drifter caught John’s eye. Shit. Well, wasn’t _this_ terrible timing? He didn’t remember her name, but they’d tumbled under John’s sheets a time or two. He went to put a hand on Danse’s back to steer him in a different direction then though better of it, worried that physical contact might just send Danse over the edge. He lost the moment, and the woman marched straight up to him, snaking her arms around his waist. John politely tried to squirm out of her clutches. “C’mon, Mayor,” she pouted, pulling him closer. “How about a quick _tour_? Or, not so quick, if you’ve got it in you.” Daring fingers locked around his flag. John grabbed at her wrists and took a tense peek at Danse.

Danse’s eyes were stones. “I’ve seen enough,” he said flatly, before turning on his heel and stomping back towards the State House, his broad shoulders a wall of plaid. 

John felt a fleeting remorse over the number of women he had enjoyed while mayor, as well as the amount of men. He pushed the girl aside and took off, trailing Danse. “You know where to find me,” the girl cooed after him.

Danse yanked the State House door open and pushed past the outdoor watchman. John caught the closing door with his open palm. “Dan, wait…You can’t be angry with me. You don’t get to have that right.” He slid inside and shadowed Danse, who was swiftly climbing the stairs. “ _Stop_.” John made a desperate grab for Danse’s arm. “ _This is what you wanted_!”

Danse’s voice took on a dangerous tone and he ripped as arm away. “Unhand me, you monstrosity.” Ice spread between them. Just like that, it was life in Sanctuary all over again – the biting remarks and the superiority. Right back to pretending.

“I deserve that, right? ‘Cause you’re better than me?” Anger and old grief bubbed to the surface. “The things you fucking say to me,” he bit, disgusted. “Christ. Anything, any goddamned thing at all you can do to make yourself look better, you take full advantage. My life went to shit real fast while you were off living the dream!” John’s voice was rising, echoing off the vaulted ceiling of the State House. A door slammed down below, any watchmen in the building taking their cue to exit before their mayor unleashed his impressive wrath. “You ever had to sleep in the street, _Paladin_? You ever had to pick through bins so you could eat? Had to hope that one of your friends didn’t slit your throat while you sleep just to take your shoes? You’ve had your life handed to you, never had to worry about anything. Up until four days ago, you were the one that was doing fine!” Abhorrence wrinkled Danse’s face and he attempted to keep ascending the stairs. John charged up in front of him, blocking his path. “I ain’t done yet!” he yelled, jabbing Danse in the chest with a sharp finger. “Everywhere I go someone is trying to kill me because of who I am or what I do and what I fucking look like! The difference between us isn’t ‘cause I’m flesh and you ain’t! It’s that I’ve never spent one goddamn second ashamed of who I am!”  

Danse glowered at him, cold eyes impassive. Standing those few steps above John made the man seem even more enormous, packed with solid muscle and an unpredictable temper. There was an ill pause as John stood there feigning composure like his heart wasn’t pounding nor his body trembling. John placed his hands over his hat and spun in a frustrated circle. “Fuck, Dan. Let me in. Imagine that I exist. For once in your life, don’t be so damned stubborn. I spent years – _years_ – hacking through all your walls, chipping and chipping, and it’s like nothing happened. Like you don’t even know me.”

“Do I?” Danse questioned with a slight cock of his head. “I can’t, for the life of me, recognize who you’ve become – _what_ you’ve become. You’re an absolute stranger to me.” Danse stared at him for the breadth of a few seconds then pushed past and disappeared into the transient lodging of the top floor.

John swallowed a roar of frustration. For one chilling moment, he saw red. Irate and anxious, he felt like he was back in Sanctuary’s root cellar, desperately clinging to his sanity. He sucked a deep breath and tried to calm down. Jittery from nerves and, at this point, withdrawal, he stormed into his own quarters and tore the frock and coat from his body, balling them up and flinging them fiercely into a corner. He stopped to doff his hat by the crown, before falling heavily across his bed. His apartment lacked any of the warmth people normally adorned their homes with, spartan with just a bed and some forth-rate furniture **.** A lamp without a shade burned brightly in one corner. A second lamp with a busted bulb mirror the other side of the room. He didn’t spend much time here, opting to sleep on his office couch or share a bed with someone interesting at the Rexford instead.

He lay on his back and closed his eyes, mentally flipping through his chem inventory to find what would combat feeling like a fool. Mentats would only intensify his pain. Jet would just make it last longer. He needed something to soften the edges, to make this whole situation a little more bearable. Smooch would do the trick. Yeah, there it was. Smooch chased with Day Tripper. He could almost hear Nick Valentine sigh and Curie click her tongue in disappointment. MacCready would have smacked him in the head. After all they’d gone through to save him – Danse, too, John reminded himself – lapsing back into old habits would be a shoddy way to repay his debts. He’d tried to cut down on the chems. Really, he had. Tried and often failed. Some of it was addiction, more of it was carelessness.  

He stared at the ceiling for a while, waiting for his anger to dissipate and the urge to self-medicate pass. When he did roll off the bed, he settled for taking the remedy drug instead. He rolled up a sleeve and went to fish a pre-filled syringe from a drawer. Bright blue liquid sloshed inside of the barrel. The needle had just broken the skin of his arm when someone stepped into his apartment; their weight settled, causing a floorboard to creak.

“You should add a drum magazine to your shotgun. The addition would make for more efficient defense under fire.” Danse appearing to offer weaponry advice. His version of making amends.

John froze, realizing that he’d been caught with a needle in his arm. “This ain’t what it looks like. Honest.”

“It appears as if you’re taking proper precautions for your condition. I recognize the color of the serum.”

Shoulders loosening in relief, John depressed the plunger and the temporary fix to his feral tendency swirled into his veins. He disposed of the syringe and shook his sleeve back down.

Danse hovered in the doorway. “I may have overreacted. Your affairs are your own and that wasn’t my place. I should be more…accommodating, and humble. I apologize.” He kept blinking, avoiding a direct stare into John’s eyes. “I just…I don’t know how to begin to compartmentalize all of this. I feel as if every decision that I’ve ever made could be wrong.”

Taking a seat on his dilapidated bed, John offered, “You, uh, you wanna linger or you wanna come in?”

With some effort, Danse took a small step inside, still evading eye contact. “I have a number of questions.”

“I’d figure.”

“Did I really train at the Citadel?” Danse’s voice spilled queries in waves. “Have I ever even _been_ to Rivet City? Would anyone recognize me? Have I always been…me? If there was an original Danse, I…I think I owe it to him to find out when I… _my_ _unit_ …replaced him.” Danse looked lost and scared, mouth set in miserable lines with fists at his sides. “Can you still get anywhere you want?” he asked, raising pleading eyes to finally meet John’s. “I have to trace my history.”

John’s frustration vanished, replaced with something akin to pity. “You wanna go on a road trip? Now? That sounds a little nuts.”

“I know. And I do. Despite our differences…despite our past…I feel as if you’re the only person I can trust. Will you help me?”

Why did Danse even bother asking? John’s emotions always trumped good judgement. “Course I will. There’s a boat that goes from Maryland to D.C. in a straight shot. I’ll get you there.”


	8. Synth on the Run

DEACON

Old North Church, MA

December 29th, 2287

Morse code had come pinging across the airwaves, intercepted by that sad, lonely guy that always manned the Castle’s radio. _John D. Stop. Presence required. Stop._ _Seriously. Stop. Drop what you’re doing and. Stop._ An elaborate game of telephone had ensued, leading the cryptic message to be sent to Fixer’s Pip-Boy and then back through Radio Freedom before being transmitted directly to Preston Garvey in Sanctuary Hills. That little message made a long trip, and by the time Preston finally pulled Deacon aside, several days had passed since its origin. Upon Preston’s relay of Tinker Tom’s enigmatic request, Deacon had left immediately for H.Q. He could walk the Freedom Trail in his sleep but opted for the safer and less scenic route through Charleston straight into the North End. That way, he could wax poetic as he traveled.

The time spent in Sanctuary had been burdened with vigilance. With Fixer busy barking up every tree he could find and splitting time and resources among each group he encountered, Deacon had been given – or rather, taken – plenty of information to ferry. His newly-thawed protégé had disappeared again, as he tended to do, taking that creepy courser with him. Not that Deacon couldn’t appreciate the value in hiding behind a trendy pair of sunglasses, but that courser was cyro-froze himself, ice cold in his demeanor and speech. There was some dissent among the Railroad if coursers could even qualify for liberation. The idea of approaching any of them to even try was ludicrously dangerous. It took a strong synth mind to break free from the kind of conditioning coursers undertook. Deacon could only recall one that had managed such a feat and often wondered what had become of him.   

In a characteristically selfish move, he’d taken Curie under his metaphorical wing. Curie, the brand-spanking-new synth who was just too damn pure for this world. She was currently obsessed with her navel, and would make Deacon laugh about it, not that she intended to, until tears streamed down his face and fogged his lenses. Recalling the sound of her accented voice pondering _Where does it lead to on the other side?_ as she poked a finger in her belly button, he snorted out loud. Something rustled in the bushes off South Alley in response to the noise. His attention sharpened, and he reached for his gun. One of those oversized cockroaches scurried into sight before disappearing once more into a slime-encrusted gutter.

The region around the Gallery was quiet, as it tended to be these days. It had been almost two months since a wayward raider stumbled into the Old North Church, fleeing from Pickman. Fixer had bartered a nice symbiotic relationship that benefited almost everyone, particularly the North End. Deacon hugged the shadows as he made his way to the end of the Freedom Trail. Waving trees branches cast sinister shapes over the tarnished bronze statue of Paul Revere, complete on horseback. “Hey, man,” he addressed the figure as he came around to the small courtyard, having gone too long without conversation. “One if by land, two if by sea, how many by highly combustible vertibird?” A gentle breeze knocked a few brittle leaves to the ground. “No? That’s cool. My favorite conversations tend to be one-sided. Thanks for keeping an eye out.” He slapped the horse on the ass.

Prying the door of the church open, he went inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He lifted his sunglasses for a few seconds, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the decaying building. Dropping the shades back into place, he drew his pipe gun, thumbing the hammer back as he moved deeper into the church. That small click echoed through the lofty eaves. Dust motes floated within the hazy column of filtered sunlight that spilled down through the gaping hole in the roof. Nothing flung itself from the pews to kill him. Glory must be climbing the walls for her to be keeping their feral infestation this clean.   

He stole to the farthest corner of the basement without incident, holstered his weapon and spun the code into a dial mounted on a wall. There came the short-lived sound of grinding bricks as the entrance barrier sank back and slid to one side, revealing a pathway. The air was musty and stale, flow impeded by too many brick walls. He plodded through an additional corridor before reaching his destination.

Opening the door to Headquarters and bounding down the stairs to the crypt, he still found it shocking to see just how beaten the Railroad was. Operating out Switchboard had definitely been the highest point of their entire history. Enormous and fortified, it had given them a technological advantage never before achieved. It hadn’t been meant to last however, and the number of Railroad agents alive and active had tanked after its sacking. He’d seen too many hideouts come and go and, if he were to be honest about it in the slightest, the church crypt was a sorry substitute. Luckily, his lies knew no bounds and he was able to act the part of the prideful informant of a group that was merely down on their luck for a bit, not a devastated cluster of survivors with little holding themselves together. No matter how he looked at it, without some drastic change, Deacon had the suspicion that the Railroad was in the midst of its death throes. The Commonwealth could tolerate the different groups that dotted the nation to some degree but throw in the Railroad, or even the mention of synths, and people lost their minds. He’d done enough reconnaissance killing time in settlements to hear what people said about the Railroad. They might be the most hated group in the Commonwealth. While they called themselves freedom fighters, liberators and heroes, others called them turncoats, human-haters and terrorists. And…they were all of these things.

As Deacon breathed in a stuffy smell of deliverance, sarcastic applause broke out at his appearance. He tossed a few kisses as Drummer gave a wolf whistle. “Thank you. Thank you. Yes, I know. I’d be astounded by me, as well.”

“The prodigal fucking son,” Glory’s voice scoffed. It was a valiant effort to see anything through his shades as the oppressive tomb was lit only by candlelight and a few low-charged desk lamps. He caught her bent over her minigun by a back wall, recalibrating the barrels, her platinum hair hanging over cynical eyes. “You _must_ be a most rare vision.”

“C’mon, Glor.” Deacon stepped deeper into the safehouse. “I might be an ass, but if I’m anybody, I’m Puck.” He raised a brow at her, daring her to catch his reference. Glory’s scowl deepened. _Nailed it._

“Deacon,” Desdemona called from the podium, swathed in cigarette smoke. “Nice of you to reappear.”

“That’s me – _poof_ – I show up when you least expect it.” He approached his superior. “Whatcha got for me?”

Desdemona sucked on her cigarette and lifted a folder from the dais at the center of the mausoleum. “I thought you’d want in on this,” she said, handing it over.

“Aw, thanks, Dez,” he replied, taking the report with a cocky grin. “You send me to all the best places. Standard assignment – synth on the run?”

“With a twist.” Her smile was wry as she puffed nicotine.

He cracked the folder open and reviewed the file, flipping pages. The picture of a familiar face was attached to the report, disapproving brows and all. Deacon had seen too much to shock him. This did, and his vain smile died. “You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered to himself. He raised his voice and held the folder aloft. “Who pulled this info? Hey, Tom – remember that one time when I said you weren’t funny? You still aren’t.”

“Hey, man – ain’t my find. Details came directly from that tin blimp.” In his standard corner, Tom tapped a few keys on his terminal. “Intercepted a broadcast sent out to all local units as far as the bandwidth could throw it. Tell you what – Brotherhood’s probably up in arms right now. Might be a good time to –”

“Tom!” Desdemona snapped, crushing the filter of her cigarette into a tray. “Timing is everything. We’re not heading into a hornet’s nest with every member agitated.” She promptly lit another smoke. Tom mumbled under his breath and returned to work.

Deacon fell into a chair, stretched his long legs and traced the photo with a fingertip. There were two options and two types of synths. Escapees were the most common, synths that had either escaped or been smuggled out of the Institute, dumb-shows that gave themselves away with their innocence and naivety. These were cases for the Railroad, where they’d swoop in like the rockstars they were and implant new memories and faces _toute suite_. He gave a simple grin. _Heh, Curie’d appreciate that._ Now, the other type was a more difficult category – units manufactured for subterfuge and experimentation in group settings, cities and settlement and the like. Those ones knew from the get-go that they were synths, that they had a devious job to do, and were the most dangerous. In these cases, the only sane option was to feed them a bullet.

The picture in file. There was a problem with the picture. If Danse had been claimed by the Railroad, his face would have been changed, rendering Institute records inaccurate. His face was still intact, meaning…what? Because, the tin can didn’t know. There was no way he knew. You can’t just fake that level of hatred and distrust, and Deacon was an expert on faking. A sleeper? That type was rare. And to hear Danse tell it, he’d already had a long and prosperous career laden with opportunity to strike a death blow to the Brotherhood. Something else was at play here.

“If you don’t want this job, I’d be happy to take it from you,” said Glory, appearing at Deacon’s elbow. “I’d love to give one of those assholes a taste of what they’ve been doling out.”

“Deacon,” Desdemona spoke up, the creases around her eyes deepening with stress as she started in on yet another cig. “I sent for you because I’ve personally seen M7-97 here with Fixer. I know that you’ve worked together in some capacity, and while I don’t fault you for it, perhaps it gives you a different angle. With _Red Glare_ on the docket, I’d rather not tip our hand.” A heavy sigh sent trails of smoke drifting from her nostrils. “The very existence of this unit is both a conundrum and a concern. If there’s a chance to reclaim him _without_ guns blazing, I would prefer it.”

Glory glowered at Desdemona’s assumption, no matter how accurate Deacon felt it was. Should she take the M7-97 assignment from him, the mission would surely bring out the sadistic steak in her that most of them strived to avoid. Although he was fairly certain that Glory wouldn’t kill Danse outright, she would definitely make him suffer. A corner of Deacon’s mouth turned down, displeased. “Minimal casualties,” he agreed, to Glory’s displeasure. “Got it.”

He shut the folder and stood. Striding across the crypt to stand beside Tom, he asked, “Where am I off to?”

Tom puffed out one cheek and brought a map up on his terminal screen. “Tourist caught sight of a guy in one of those skintight jumpsuits skirting through the Financial District. That was a couple of days ago.”

“Not much there except…Goodneighbor?”

“I’m guessin’. Aaaand…that’s it. That’s all we got.”

Deacon’s wheels began to crank. If Danse was headed to Goodneighbor, odds were that it wasn’t for the ambiance. He would be looking for help, looking for –

Deacon was neither stupid nor blind. Danse’s natural evasiveness had recently overflowed, escalating to a hell of a scene that unfolded at Sanctuary Hill’s main entry. The tin can and jerky stick clearly had history.

He dropped the folder on Tom’s workstation and elbowed him away from the terminal. “No, no, no. Don’t track _him_ ,” Deacon instructed, typing in a rapid succession of commands. “Track Hancock. He’s the one with the traceable account.” Deacon pulled up files, easily cracking into the mayor of Goodneighbor’s transactions. Wasn’t too hard, as only a handful of people had access to the digital accounts the ran out of the New New York Exchange. “Where did you go, you sly dog?” He scrolls through numerous lines of text. A recent purchase blinked on screen. “Got him. He’s on the move. Where to?” He clicked on the purchase and a name appeared – _Duchess Gambit_. “Gotcha.” When Deacon saw the boat’s route, he almost laughed. Memories of rubble walls, mushroom-brown skies and tongue-lashing centaurs crashed into his mind. “Wow…guess the more you run, the faster you end up where you began.”

“What’s it say?” Tom inquired over his shoulder.

“Looks like I’m packing my bags and heading back to the good ol’ Capital Wastes.”

Maybe he’d even find something he’d left behind. 


	9. Formerly

JOHN

Rivet City, VA

December 31st, 2287

The ship creaked and groaned around them, the structure protesting its current state. Out of service for centuries and beached along the rocky shore, the air craft carrier upon which Rivet City had been built still stank of military requisition. Perhaps that was why Danse had favored the memory of it so much. Having passed through the Capital in his youth, John recalled Rivet City as being a glorious den of activity. Level after level of well-maintained staterooms, shops and specialized centers had been a welcome juxtaposition to the desolation of the war-bleached Wasteland. Now, this city was dead, a mere phantom of its formal self. Where electricity had once flowed, trash can fires currently severed as hubs for clusters of people in tattered clothes to gather, and a few rickety generators chugged along in places where the threat of open flame was too great. Open barrels of irradiated harbor water sat near each fire, as a tipped trash can full of embers could be disastrous on board the ship. The once bustling marketplace had been replaced by a meager collection of goods spread out over a blanket-covered floor overseen by those too old or feeble to risk leaving the relative safety of the ships’ hulls behind. The framework of the stalls still existed, draped in fabric and plastic tarps, serving as housing for the folks that still called Rivet City home.      

Amid a shabby recreation area above the stalls of the midship marketplace, John made a face, and his nose would have wrinkled had it still been attached. “Looks like this tub’s seen better days.”

“It wasn’t always like this,” Danse mumbled, keeping his voice. Danse had taken them in through a side door, as to not parade through the center of the market and led John to the level overlooking the bazaar. The loft created a decent vantage point from which they could watch the hustle below. Danse’s plan had been to question the longer-standing vendors once they had padlocked their stores, see if they had any recollection of him and what they might be able to reveal. Much of that plan had vanished once they saw the sad state of the ship. There had obviously been a had exodus, leaving a handful of long-time residents left.

“I recall,” John mentioned, leaning back on the safety-rail. “What happened?”

“We did. The Brotherhood.” Danse had taken up a position by the pool table, cue in hand, running his thumb over the tip. Every so often, as someone would pass through on their way to or from midship, he would bend as if to line up a shot, shielding his face away from anyone who might notice him. Danse had gone from trying to spot the right people to actively avoiding the wrong kind. They were both armed, of course, should this entire venture go south. “During the construction of the Prydwen…well, we needed a reactor. Rivet City was the closest location that housed one.”

Snorting in disbelief, John said, “So, you just took it for yourselves, huh?” Exerting unnecessary force at the cost of the local populace seemed like a very Brotherhood thing to do.

Danse shook his head. _You wouldn’t understand_ , was what that meant. “Our needs were great. And immediate. Besides, we were given the clearance to do so.”

Tucking his hands under his arms, John huffed, “Hard to believe the Governor let that one slide.”

“That same Governor used to wear Brotherhood insignia,” Danse reminded him with a raised brow. “Who do you think signed off on it?”

“Pugh,” John grumbled. A decade prior, the Governor of the Capital had been a big deal, dealing a blow to the Enclave and salvaging the local water purifier. But if there was one thing John knew, it was that power tended to corrupt. And anyone that would permit the destruction of a major city to back the Brotherhood’s efforts at genocide was a both crook and a sell-out in his eyes.   

With lips tight in study, Danse straightened and looked around. The limited light sources in Rivet City must be making it hard for him to identify anyone he may have remembered. As a woman brought up a box of items up from the stalls, Danse ducked his head again, giving the woman a clear view of John on the other side of him. Her neutral expression turned startled, and she rushed by without a word, disappearing into a stairwell, the bulkhead slamming behind her.

John frowned at her departing back, feeling the stirrings of bad news in his gut. Wearing a thinly-veiled scowl, he glanced over his shoulder to study the marketplace. It was early evening and the vendors were rolling up their wares in the blankets for the night. He shifted nervously, arms still folded, tapping one boot. Releasing a gruff sigh, John unfolded his arms, shook his fingers, and refolded his arms once more.

Staring at him, Danse’s brows quirked as he straightened once more. “What you doing?” he whispered harshly.

“Waiting for someone to start screaming _feral_ at me.” John dropped his arms and leaned on the raining, folding his wrists. His toe still tapped. Any place that lacked ghouls gave off a stench of prejudice that reminded him too strongly of Diamond City. A steady stream of Jet would make him numb enough to deal with being scrutinized, but a chem-huffing ghoul would draw further attention, ruining Danse’s strategy. He should have traded his stately frock for his road leathers. Too late, now.

“ _Feral!_ ” someone screamed, their shill voice echoing in the interior of the ship. A slew of activity washed over the marketplace as people gabbed at their belongings and scattered like radroaches. 

John grumbled and pushed away from the railing. “And there it is.” He clapped his hands, loudly. “Clockwork.”

A hatch clanged as it was thrown open on the opposite side of the market. A guard came barreling out of the doorway and careened around a corner, reaching for the railing as he sprinted up the stairs, pulling his weapon as he took multiple steps at a time. Bursting onto the loft level, the guard hoisted a plasma rifle to his shoulder, green light bathing his face on one side. He had a squared-off jaw and brown hair. A worn set of armor hung over an officer’s uniform. The man paused in his rush, one eye squinting at John. “What the hell are you supposed to be – a pirate?”

Yep – definitely should have ditched the outfit. “Arr,” John rumbled in jest, but humiliation forced him to remove his hat. It wouldn’t do for him to cause an even bigger scene. He placed one hand over his forehead, self-consciously screening a wide strip of peeled flesh, and braced for the arrival of additional security officers.

In a shockingly considerate move, Danse stepped between them, a calm hand held up before him.  “Whoa, there. Stand down, officer.”

“Is this _your_ ghoul?” the guard asked, rifle still at the ready. John’s jaw slid to an aggravated angle and readied a vicious response as he replaced his hat. Ghoul servitude was common in the Capital, and an easy assumption to jump to.

“Yes,” Danse was swift to answer, cutting John off before he could speak. “He’s mine.” Danse’s hand shot out to grasp John’s elbow and haul him closer while still shielding him with his own body. He still clutched the pool cue, fingers readjusting their grip as if considering it for an emergency weapon. Astonished, John took his place behind Danse, careful to keep his big mouth shut.

After exchanging a lengthy stare with Danse, the guard seemed to pale of the green glow of his rifle. His aesthetic features took on a stunned expression and he lowered his gun. With a raised yet shaky voice, he called to the ship at large, “False alarm. No ferals on board.” Then, he stepped closer, so near that he was able to hiss in Danse’s ear, “You can’t be here. They’ll find you.” His voice had taken a panicked turn.

Danse’s steely resolve bled away and his jaw dropped. “I…what do you mean? The Brotherhood?”

The guard shook his head, and observed the entire garret before whispering, “The Institute.”

The pool cue clattered to the ground. This random watchman had just confirmed Danse’s worst fear – someone in Rivet City knew he wasn’t real. John chanced a supportive palm on Danse’s shoulder as the big man’s posture deflated. There was no reaction to the touch, and John supposed that was the best he could hope for. “How could you know that?” Danse asked in a dumbfounded tone.

“I’m Jack Harkness, head of security.” With an unbroken stare, the guard added, “You should come with me. Right now.” Harkness jerked his head back to the hatch he had come from. Despite him having given the all clear, he gave an additional quick scan of the area, even leaving them for a few seconds to cautiously check the nearby stairwell.

Danse gave turned to give a questioning glance, and John dropped his hand. Drawing a full breath and reestablishing himself, Danse nodded and followed the guard. John trailed close behind, wary of trigger-happy would-be-heroes eager to claim that they’d bested a ghoul. The trio made their way down a set of stairs and through a few bulkheads before reaching a small room within the guard station lit by oil lanterns. Metal tables secured to the floor lined the walls while a few plastic chairs were scattered about. “Out,” Harkness barked, and the few lingering guards disappeared, leaving their still steaming coffees behind. With the three of them alone, Harkness shut the door and faced the two of them. “Dear Father below,” he breathed. “They finally made you.” Without hesitation, he asked, “Are they coming for you?”

John and Danse traded glances once more.

“Who, specifically?” Danse was careful to ask as went to stand before the guard. He and Harkness both stood at attention, two officers clearly more at ease with protocol in place.

“Coursers from the Institute. Aren’t they chasing you? Is that why you’re here?” Trace fright made the guard’s blue eyes look bright.

“No,” Danse answered. “To the best of my knowledge, the Institute is still ignorant of my existence.”

Nodding to himself, Harkness shifted and relaxed a smidgen. His gaze fell on John and he offered, “You’d be safe in one of the holding cells.” He pointed at one of the sealed bulkheads. “I’ll come get you when we’re finished.”

Irked at being sent off like a meddling child, John opened his mouth for a retort, but Danse beat him to it. “Anything you need to say, he can be present for,” stated Danse. “He knows as much about my situation as I do.” His acceptance prompted a gratified smile from John. He stifled it quickly, before either of the men present saw. 

Harkness shrugged as if to say _your funeral_ and reached to swing a chair under him. He sat the wrong way, arms draped over the back. The plasma rifle still glowed in its holster on his back. His easy posture made John like him, just a little. “My unit designation is A3-21,” he explained. “I’m a synth. I’m with the Railroad.”

Balling his fists, Danse stood tall and said, “I’m…I am M7-97. Formerly Paladin Danse.”

That simple statement must have cost Danse something dear. John felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach just hearing it. He pressed himself into a corner, giving the two synths space as a flood of memories stole his senses – the bar in Alexandria, sunlight and laughter, tenderness and quiet, cherished moments. Danse hadn’t know his life was a lie, and it made John melancholic. Danse been on the run from himself for as long as he’d been alive…or rather, activated.

Forgotten about, John nabbed a cup of coffee from one of the tables. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d enjoyed caffeine outside of a crushed tablet. Drinking the bitter liquid seemed a better solution to calming butterflies than popping chems right now. Danse seemed at the cusp of getting what he wanted and, despite Danse being the occasional dense idiot, John did want him to find some relief.  

“What happened to the real Harkness?” Danse questioned, his tone all business despite the tremble of his fists.

The guard’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. “I _am_ the real Harkness. My memories – my history – are all my own, given to me by the Railroad before I remembered who they were.” He drummed fingers on the back of the chair. “My eyes were reopened, and I’ve been an on-and-off operative ever since.” With hardened eyes, he added, “After the Brotherhood raped my ship for its reactor, my duties in Rivet City lessened along with the population.”

The slur against the Brotherhood made Danse roll his shoulders, his hands clenching and unclenching. “You…acted as if you recognized me.”

“Of course, I did. When I left the Institute, you were going to be the next big thing.” Harkness blew a weary exhale out of his nose. “What went so wrong that you left you ended up back here?”

“I feel you already know too much about me,” Danse bit, glowering.

“Fair. Sorry, but my time spend with the Railroad taught me what questions to ask.” Taking a heady breath, Harkness divulged, “I was a courser – _Surface Security_ – sent up top by the Institute to do their dirty work. That extended to enabling pet projects, such as yourself. You were my very last assignment. My initial mission to Rivet City was to make sure that you existed on record. Only after I implanted a digital history did I even start to question my role.” He paused to rub the sole of his boot over the floor and a wistful smile made his lip turn up. “I guess I kinda took to the ship.”

“You were a courser?” Maybe it was a trick of the flickering lamplight, but Danse seemed to go pale. His spine was locked though, as per his training, or programming, and he remained standing at attention.

“I was.” Harkness’ expression pinched, his brows knitting as his eyes lost a bit of their focus. “Some of those memories…sometimes they bleed through.” A stiff inhale and he was back in the present, eyes locked his Danse’s. “Is it my turn yet?”

“Proceed.”

“So, why return to Rivet City?”

Swallowing, Danse divulged, “My identity was uncovered by the Brotherhood. A colleague notified me, and I was able to escape.”

Harkness’ sharp eyes narrowed. “ _Uncovered_?” Then, he grinned. “Well, I guess somebody’s been busy behind closed doors at the Institute. Tell me – was it my group?”

Seemingly insulted, Danse huffed, “I have no idea where Proctor Quinlan got his information. I find it highly unlikely that the Railroad bestowed any type of information to the Brotherhood.”

“I take that as a _no_. Well, then you are in a pickle. Still –” Harkness fixed Danse another stare “– Why are you _here_?”

“I need answers. I don’t know which parts of my life are fictional and which parts really happened. I know that I was here. My partner, Cutler, and I operated a shop in Rivet City. We enrolled in the Brotherhood in 2270. But after that, I’m no longer sure.”

Harkness’ face lost some of its edge. He closed his eyes and gently shook his head. “No. You were never here. Cutler never had a partner.”

That piece of new made John’s heartrate jump, and he gawked at Danse over the lip of his coffee cup. Danse looked confused and appeared to struggle, brows and jaw twitching as he tried to understand. “No, I…I have… _very specific_ memories of him,” Danse insisted.

 _I’ll bet_ , John thought, feeling a short pang of jealousy. Cutler had been Danse’s first – first friend, first love, first sexual partner. He remembered all the glowing stories.

“No, you don’t,” Harkness maintained. “You only think you do. Mike Cutler never met you.”

Danse stood with his mouth open as he fought for breath. Like the air going out of a balloon, he wilted, dropping to the floor, palms out for balance as he sank to his knees. As he rocked forward, his holotags spilled out from under his shirt, the metal rectangles rotating slightly on their chain. John pushed himself out of his corner and almost went to him. Instead, he froze. Trying to comfort Danse had a fifty percent chance of causing him to lash out. John decided not to wager that right now. Later. It always took Danse a while to process things anyway. Danse was slow to adopt change, and all of this self-discovery might take him years to sort though. If pushed, he’d rebel, draw away and bury his head in the sand. Because of that knowledge, John took a step backwards. In Alexandria…he’d been Danse’s first and felt shamefully prideful about that. The two of them were equal now.

“Few in the Institute even knew about your construction,” Harkness continued. “It was too risky. Word getting out on a Brotherhood sleeper – even a rumor – would have destroyed the entire plan.”

Danse vacantly stared at the tiled floor, making no motion that he had absorbed what was being explained to him. John wondered if he’d lost his hearing to shock again, a disorder he knew Danse tended to suffer. He snorted into his coffee cup. A former courser with all the answers? That was both intriguing and terrifying. This guy was wasting his knowledge sitting on this boat, waiting for nature to break the hull down into rusted particles. If he was here instead of a safehouse, was the Railroad done with him? Too many unanswered questions curdled John’s perception of him.

 “What was I meant to do?” Danse finally asked the tile, his voice sounding very small.

Cocking his head, Harkness frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What was the purpose of my existence? Why would the Institute place someone on the inside of the Brotherhood? Did we really frighten them that much?”

Harkness gave a mirthless laugh that made John shiver. Danse’s eyes traveled back up to the guard’s face. “Did you really think you were the only one of your kind? That they didn’t send a unit like yours to the Enclave or the Legion?” Harkness asked, his tone curious, not cutting. “The Institute is playing the long game. They don’t really care about _now_. Fifty years. Two-hundred years. That’s what they focus on. You’re not a saboteur, M7. You’re a collection of records. And when you die, someone will come for your component and give the Institute all the information about the Brotherhood they could ever want.”

Silence reigned for a spell as Danse digested all this. “Do they know where I am? The Institute? If I’m that valuable, wouldn’t I have had a tracking system…installed?”

Harkness lifted a shoulder. “Initially, yes. But those type of things are unreliable and flimsy. Guess the Institute didn’t consider the amount of airwave traffic we’ve got up here. And there’s the matter of, well, damage. Coursers would go missing all the time due to the sheer number of knocks in the head.”

Though the caffeine in his coffee was making him jittery, it also sharpened John’s mind, and he swung his head to stare at Danse. “The headaches,” he plainly stated.

Flinching, Danse shook his head. “John…that isn’t –”

 “What about headaches?” Harkness asked, eyes darting between the two of them.

“The headaches,” John pushed. “From all the times you got knocked in the melon.” With perfect clarity, he recollected the debilitating ways that Danse had dealt with his pain, rolled up in bedrolls hiding from the light, unable to even get up some days. Initially, John had been pissed, thinking that Danse had been wasting their time together, because how bad could it really be? Later, he’d learned that none of it had been exaggerated and felt guilty for thinking overwise.

“You’ve sustained a head injury?” Harkness asked.

“I have. Several,” Danse answered. “But…I recall headaches. In recent years, though…it isn’t exactly _pain._ ” Harkness didn’t say anything, but his eyes were still sharp. Danse struggled to explain. “It hurts, yes. But the sound…the sensation…it’s like screaming. It’s this constant span of white noise that rises and distorts and sounds like –”

“Static?” Harkness offered.

The life in Danse’s eyes drained. “Yes.”

Motionless in his seat, Harkness blinked at Danse. “Well, congratulations.”

“The hell does that mean?” John snapped, skin starting crawl.  

Harkness gave him a quick glance before readdressing Danse. “The signal has been disrupted, failing to execute internal commands, resulting in the static. You’re lost to the Institute. Well, provided no one sells you out.”

Having pitched forward into a miserable ball on the floor, Danse looked absolutely crushed. After a few minutes, he asked, “But Cutler was real?”

“He was.”

“How…how do I have memories of him? Why would they give me those?”

“That’s a question for Robotics. I didn’t have that clearance.” Danse’s fingers dug into the floor, seconds away from scratching furrows into the ancient tile with his short nails. “I’m sorry,” Harkness said, his voice soft. “Maybe you’re going to get tired of hearing people say that. But…you were never supposed to know any of this to begin with.”

Danse promptly shoved himself up and walked out of the room. There was an awkward moment as John and Harkness regarded each other. John jerked a thumb in Danse’s direction and set the coffee cup down. “I’m gonna…yeah.”

Having witnessed that suicidal steak in the bunker, he was more than concerned. John slipped from the room and swung his head, looking for Danse. He hadn’t gotten far. In the stairwell between levels, Danse had his arms wrapped through the railing of the staircase, his back to the hall he had emerged from. John wondered if this was where he had come – where he had _thought_ that he came – when he was upset while living in Rivet City. He joined at Danse’s side. “Hey. You doin’ okay?” No answer, just a blank stare. “Dan?”

“Please…just let me be,” Danse voice cracked. “I need…time. And space.”

John could have guessed at this response. Pulling back, he nodded. “Yeah. Sure thing. But, I ain’t leaving you. Not after…” Not after the horrors of the bunker. “Not after I made a commitment,” he finished.

When Danse winced at that word, John immediately regretted using it. Seemed like they’d be walking around on broken glass forever.

“Go up and grab some air,” John suggested. “And don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be right behind.”

Lost in dark thoughts, Danse nodded, pulled his arms out of the railing and climbed the stairs, each step confidently placed without looking at his feet, as if he’d walked this route before. John sighed at his back and turned around. There were a few more things that he needed from that guard.


	10. A New Year

DANSE

Rivet City, VA

December 31st, 2287

It had been John’s idea to spend the night in the open air of the flight deck to avoid drawing additional attention. It was New Year’s Eve, and any citizens that might have normally lingered up top had ventured below for both warmth and revelry, clustered near to their fire barrels, drawing deep what cheer they could find. After checking to make sure that Danse hadn’t thrown himself overboard, the ghoul had returned to Harkness to request supplies. Danse was grateful, as he didn’t have the heart to face the other synth again.

A chilly sea breeze tugged at his hair as he stood at the railing, overlooking the water. A sliver of moon reflected on a black sea where it met blacker sky. Intermittently, the ship’s metal hull would groan in protest as it tipped imperceptibly back and forth. Alone on deck, a despondency that he had fought for days rose up inside of him. Cutler…their history, both professional and personal…all of it, fake. Danse had expected a certain amount of discrepancies to emerge once he began prodding into his past. But this, to take Cutler away from him in this manner, it was cruel, and it gutted him.

When the call had come to wage a final assault on Adams Air Force Base, he assumed he had spent a year in mourning for his partner. So clear was the recollection of wanting to be left alone during that time, to focus on his job without the added pressure of social scenarios. The pain of losing the man he’d known since he was twelve had been too fresh. He remembered Cutler’s laugh, how he liked his coffee, the color of his eyes in sunlight, the first time they had lain together, what he looked like when he was asleep, the side-eye he would give Danse during roll calls, what Danse’s name had sounded like the final time that he had said it, the way he had convulsed when he died. He remembered –

His stomach churned, and he hid his face in his hands, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. All of his memories had been poisoned.

And then, John.

Now Danse knew that John had been the first civilian man he had ever truly seen. And he had promptly selected him for an inappropriate engagement. Was that the entire plan? That he would latch on to the first person he could outside of Brotherhood influence in order to further his tragic backstory – the awkward, queer officer that preferred to keep others at a distance? Had his Brotherhood programming conflicted with the shameful background he had been given, splitting himself into a duality of intentions – his life with John and his life at the Citadel? Is that why he had never been able to allow his two halves to overlap? It felt unduly brutal for the Institute to have built him like this.

Lost in memories of Cutler, Danse drew his hands from his face to stare at his palms in the moonlight. A pain throbbed behind one eye, and that static in his mind began to crackle. In flash, he was elsewhere. Acrid smoke burned his nostrils as daylight warmed the back of his neck. The aftermath of a battlefield somewhere, impossible to pinpoint. His shaking hands were crusted in blood, gore clinging under his fingernails. But…his hands weren’t his hands. The skin was dark, the palms lighter. He watched those hands plunge into a pot of water and scrub frantically at the blood coating them. As the water in the pot turned pink, Danse realized that he knew these hands, their shade and shape. They were Cutler’s.

A bulkhead clanged open, ripping Danse from his reverie, sunlight replaced with the dark of night. He swung his head, spotting John as he emerged from a doorway, his arms laden with sleeping bags and their travel satchel. The ghoul kicked the bulkhead closed, struggling under the bulk of their provisions. Even in his elaborate coat, John looked thin as a rake, barely a person amist all the layers of fabric.

As John took to arranging their sleeping space, Danse returned his attention to the Anacostia River, watching a faint ripple of moonlight play on the surface.

“You still lost in that thick head of yours?” John asked, crossing the deck to join him.

Still watching the river, Danse swallowed, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack. “I…never thought I’d be so pleased to have been hit in the head. It may have saved countless lives from my inevitable betrayal.” He found whitened knuckles clutching the metal railing of the ship. “Maxson was right. Everything the Brotherhood had feared was true. I’m just a weapon in an arsenal. A holotape of information disguised as a human being, meant to be retrieved once my duty was done.” A flush of anger swept through him, and he glared at John. “You should have let me end this charade. It was selfish of you to rescue me.”

John made a dismissive noise and shoved his shoulder. “Stop being a whiner and sit down. You ain’t eaten since we got off the boat.” His footsteps faded away.

Feeling chagrined, Danse didn’t immediately follow. What was he trying to accomplish by aggravating John, who had done nothing more offensive than promise to stand at his side? He shoved his turmoil down as deep as it could go and mutely wandered to where the ghoul had made camp. Neither of them daring to spark conversation, and after a disappointing supper of cold tinned cram and dry cereal, they turned in for the night. They lay on their backs within their sleeping bags, arms folded over the outsides. Their breaths puffed snowy clouds of condensation into the air. Too risky to chance the light of a contained fire, they were in for a cold evening. Danse watched the stars as they peeked out from behind silvery wisps of cloud, noting familiar constellations, reminiscing over better days spent on night patrol along the Citadel’s walls.

As Danse weighted the misery of his situation, John spoke up beside him. “Dan…I’m sorry.”

Danse blinked before turning to face to him. “I…need further clarification.”

The ghoul wasn’t looking at him. Horrendous tears in his skin slit his face from cheek to mouth. He had removed his hat and seemed very exposed, black eyes shining in the dark. “I knew it was you. The moment you walked into Sanctuary, clanking and proud, I knew it. And I hated you for it. For being right where I left you. For staying the same. All the backhanded comments and seething remarks…I was still so angry with you. Didn’t expect it. Thought there had been enough time for it to dissipate.” The outline of John’s sleeping bag expanded as he took and deep inhale and held it. After the exhale, the ghoul subtly shook his head. “But then I got it, and it all made sense. That’s just who you are. The promise you made…it was never to me. It was to them. To serve and die and do everything that was asked of you. And now, I know that you didn’t even have a choice. You were made that way.”   

Danse watched John watch the sky as an ache built in his chest. “Why is this all so easy for you? Don’t you care about what I am?”

John shook his head, eyes still fixed. “Organic. Synthetic. Why would I care? I’ve never known you any other way.”

With stunning clarity, Danse realized that, with the exception of the first week of his life as a synth, he had always known John. He had come for him at Bravo, just as Haylen had guessed that he would, even though the thought of John being his savior had never entered his mind. John had always cared for him, even after Danse had abandoned him, and had never given up. Shame warmed Danse’s cold face, and he looked away.

A few gunshots went off in Anacostia, and a rise of voices made the carrier vibrate beneath his back. It must be midnight, the remaining citizens of Rivet City all caught in celebration. A new year, full of chances. And the opportunities to make the same mistakes all over again.

Though Danse couldn’t bring himself to look at the wreckage of John’s face, he snaked an arm out of his sleeping bag and took the ghoul’s slim hand. Something like guilt spiraled out of his stomach, threatening to fill his chest, and he covered his face with the opposite palm.

John squeezed his fingers. “I missed you,” he said in the kind of stifled voice that Danse was avoiding. 

Overwhelmed, Danse pulled his hand from of his grasp. “John, I…I’ve done some atrocious things in the Brotherhood’s name. I feel you know that.”

“Dan…you’re a good man. You’re a bigoted asshole, but you’re also a good man. Never woulda bothered with you if you weren’t.” When Danse eventually removed the hand from his eyes and looked back at John, he found the ghoul on his side, staring at him through cautiously hopeful eyes. John’s voice sounded thick as he asked, “Think…maybe we could pretend? Like everything was fine again? That none of the really bad stuff happened?”

“No,” Danse answered honestly, his voice low. “I’ve had enough deception in my life.”

John’s eyes slid closed. A hollow sensation took root in Danse’s chest, and he cursed his ceaseless verbal attacks. Not only was he useless as a solider, but he was terrible person as well. No matter what he intended, he managed to hurt those who cared for him. Having stuck with him, John deserved better than the treatment Danse had been delivering. Hancock was a stranger, but John…Danse knew him, knew his walk, the cadence of his speech, his preferences for being touched, what the rhythm of his breathing sounded like when he was asleep, all the ticks and gestures that made him who he was. The man with the yellow hair, that phantom from the past was right here at arm’s length.

With tentative fingers, Danse turned onto his side, grasped a handful of John’s sleeping bag, and dragged him in closer over the deck. The ghoul’s eyes popped open. A handbreadth apart, they stared at each other, suspended in the moment. The air between them burned, crackled, oxygen sucked from the air, daring one of them to make a move.

John’s eyes were dark wells of eternity as he gave a subtle shake of his head. “You don’t want this.”

Gazing down a tunnel of apprehension, Danse acknowledged that John was likely right – that he was trading hurt for the mindlessness of a physical connection. He honestly wasn’t sure of what he wanted. Still, old feelings ran too deep to sever on a whim. “Do _you_?” he had to ask.  

He was too aware of John pondering that question in the blue moonlight, of his long fingers and the grooves in his once-beautiful face, how the clenching of his jaw made exposed muscles bounce. “I can’t be your mistake,” came the answer. “I can’t. Not again.” John rolled in his bag until his back was to him, leaving Danse to stare at a wall of ragged fabric.

Danse couldn’t blame him. He’d spent time earning that distrust. Always a step behind John, he’d been the one to stall their relationship. But he wasn’t that man anymore, and never could be again. Breaking free from the heavy press of indecision, he reached around to place a palm flat against the plane of John’s chest. He dragged John, bag and all, nearer until they lay chest-to-back, the closest to an apology as Danse could manage. “Happy New Year,” Danse mumbled into the back of John’s neck.

Though John’s startled breathing was jagged, it eventually dissolved into slow, deep exhalations. His high-temperature ghoul body exuding a pleasant amount of heat in Danse’s embrace as his gaunt frame relaxed. “Happy New Year, Dan.”

Resting his forehead against John’s collar, Danse slept more peacefully than he had in years.


	11. Just you. Just me.

DANSE

Arbor View, VT

February 26th, 2278

John had been missing for nine hours. Nine hours and thirteen minutes, to be exact.

Outside of the diner where they had made their camp, Danse paced deep furrows into the snow drifts. He wore a heavy winter coat that trailed past his knees and sleek, black gloves. Although his breath condensed into white clouds of vapor, he was warm enough in his clothing. He had risen late, most of his night having been a waste, sleep-wise. He had only been able to grab a few hours in the early morning, and John had already been gone by the time Danse had awoken.

They never took watches. It wasn’t that Danse didn’t trust John, or believed he was incapable. John simply didn’t want to and argued that their time together was fleeting and would be wasted if they slept in shifts of a few hours at a time. John wished for their visits to be fully utilized, a desire which Danse could appreciate. However, attempting to sleep beside someone else had become a chore. Even on Danse’s best nights, his slumber was restless. The night before, when John had accidently woken Danse the throes of a nightmare, Danse had repaid him by nearly strangling him. Half-caught between sleep and reality, he hadn’t known where – or when – he was and had taken to self-defense. When Danse’s senses returned, he’d found his hands tight around John’s throat. The small blonde must have stopped struggling to trigger Danse into escaping his hallucination. Mortified, Danse had retreated to a far corner of the diner, dragging his bedroll with him. John had tried to comfort him, ensuring that he understood what had transpired and didn’t blame him, but sound of John’s voice, so hoarse after the choke he’d been given, had made Danse’s stomach twist into guilty knots, and he shut down. John had been gone by morning. It was their third visit, and already Danse had ruined this thing between them.

Throughout the afternoon, Danse had both packed and unpacked, restless, and embarrassed at having lost control of his composure. He left to check on _Invictus_ , parked on a rooftop a few buildings over. It was cold and snowing, and Danse felt equal parts panic and fury. He hoped that John was safe, and on his way back, so that he could set to berating him as punishment for causing worry.

John existed as the singular loose feature in Danse’s overtly organized existence. His personality stood in stark contrast to anyone that Danse knew, doing whatever he felt like with little regard to conformity. There was nothing that Danse could suggest that he would turn down. He was adventurous and daring in a way that had nothing to do with combat. While John challenged him, it never took an offensive turn, and Danse felt free to push the limits of his comfort zone. He savored the fact that he and John would reunite at different locations, with no chance of running into anyone that would recognize either of them. Occurring every few months during Danse’s furlough breaks, such meetings had been devised through a method of message-transfers through the Bravo servers, using codes for dates and locations. Danse had bent regulations as far as he could and had checked and checked again to ensure that no rules were being broken. Having a segment of his own life outside of the confines of the Brotherhood was both a jarring and treasured experience. Stepping away provided him with opportunity to release tension, regroup and return to the Brotherhood intensely refocused.

By the time John reappeared, his boots crunching through snowfall, an orangey-pink sunset had ignited the horizon. His scarf was pulled up to hazel eyes that looked very blue against the white snow. A cap with ear flaps covered his head, and several layers of jackets made him look bulkier than he was. He had a parcel tucked under one arm. Tugging the scarf down with mittened fingers, he nonchalantly asked, “Fire going?”

Seeing him safe, air rushed from Danse’s lungs in relief. That swell of emotion caused a tremor a build within, and he clenched his fists to hide it, making the leather of his gloves squeak and strain. “Damn you, John,” he cursed as his shoulders boxed. “Where the hell did you go?”

“Had to see a man about an item.” He waved the bundle. “Not much caravan traffic this time of year.”

“What was so important that you had to leave with no notice?”

“Can we take this inside?” John blew on a hand to warm it, breath puffing white clouds. “I picked up a present.”

Despite the mystery, Danse acquiesced and led them inside, pausing to reset the tripwire at the door. The diner was rounded with a soda bar in the center circled by red vinyl booths and checkered floor tiles. A set of double doors behind the bar led to a kitchen and restrooms housing glowing fungi branched to the far sides of the diner. Boarded-up windows provided privacy and kept wintery drafts out. Their bedrolls and supplies were laid out between the waist-high bar and the entry to the kitchen, where – should they be ambushed – they could make a brief stand before escaping out the back entry.

“It was foolish and discourteous for you to venture off on your own,” Danse scolded, dropping a few wood sticks into the fire barrel. Black smoke crawled along the ceiling before escaping out of the many holes in the roof. They were hardly the first people to take refuge here – the ceiling was almost fully engulfed in soot. Several lit tallow candles sat atop the bar, secured to the counter by their own dripping wax.

It was balmy within the diner and they shrugged off their extra layers. John unwound the scarf from his neck and placed the package on a booth table. His mouth pulled to one side as he said, “Hey, you’re the one that keeps contacting me. I’m gonna come and I’m gonna go as I see fit. I ain’t your property. So, keep the insults at a minimum, kay?”

Embarrassed at his outburst, Danse rolled his lips together and sat down on the peeling upholstery of a red vinyl booth, his black t-shirt tight over his chest. He pulled off his gloves and traced the metal runner around the lip of the table with his thumbs. He was forever grasping at the wrong words. And the wrong actions. “I apologize. I so rarely connect with anyone. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

John’s stern expression shifted, and his lips turned up in humor as he removed his ushanka and fluffed his long hair. The hat had rubbed his strands almost straight. John slid into the booth seat opposite of Danse and said, “Look, slugger, much as I adore you going for me in the middle of the night, I’ve had enough.” He pulled the strings on the package and unrolled the parcel. A collection of small syringes topped with needles were tucked inside.

As Danse’s gaze bounced between John and the syringes, his mouth fell open. “You left to buy drugs,” he said in flat, incredulous tone. 

“I left to buy _you_ drugs,” John clarified with a wink.

A disbelieving sneer twisted Danse’s features. “You can’t be serious.”

As the chemroll sat on the table between them, John blew a short breath out of his straight nose. “Dan, I get it. You’re not the first fighter to have trouble turning off the picture show,” he empathized, pressing a finger against his temple. “It’s not a big deal. Take the help.”

A nervous twisting began in Danse’s stomach. He feigned indifference and slung one arm over the back of the booth. “So, what is it?” he asked, nodding at the chems.

“Calmex. Rare as fuck, which is why it took me three vendors to find it. Cost more than a Deathclaw omelet – which are, in fact, delicious – but –” he shrugged a shoulder “ – the chance of you accidentally strangling me every night made it an easy choice.”

It was if Danse had taken a blow to the chest with that statement. He felt the crushing weight of guilt and mortification over the lack of control he had regarding his actions. It was not John’s place to fix his problems. He gulped his pride. “You shouldn’t have spent an exorbitant amount of caps on me.”

John shrugged and pulled a single hypodermic from the unfurled parcel. “Wasn’t anything I couldn’t afford. My family is from Liberty Isle. I have the means.”

Frowning, Danse tilted his head. “Liberty Isle? You…lived in the Statue of Liberty? The Statue of Liberty was your _shack by the water_? That’s quite a departure from your previous story.”

“Nnnyeeah,” John mumbled, rolling his eyes as he pried the cap off a unit of Calmex with his teeth. He spat the cap off to one side. “I can’t exactly go around telling people that. It’d put a price on my head. And on my signature.”

His signature. Danse had forgotten. Only the truly affluent had access to notes and codes in addition to caps. Danse had also made it a point to ignore the marks in John’s arms and the scent of chems that tended to cling to him whenever he reemerged from a brief moment to himself. No wonder he was able to afford such an abundance of substances. This seemed a trivial matter to dwell on, however, given how little time they spent together. They were still new to one another and had only begun to delve into personal histories. He had never witnessed John incapacitated from chems, and he kept his use private out of, Danse assumed, simple respect for Danse’s own views. John was…polite about it. Besides, if Danse turned away from everyone that made him feel discomfited, he might as well live alone on an island.   

“I can’t take you up on this offer,” Danse said with a stiff shake of his head. “I can’t. For a multitude of reasons.” Protocols…morality…accepting personal weakness. The cost seemed far too high. Surely there was some other way to deal with – No. He knew the rules. If news of his fits spreads, he’d be demoted and taken off active duty, hauling bins of tech around for the rest of his career.

Sagging in his seat, John waggled the syringe between his fingers, jaw and brows set unhappily. “Look, I’m trying to give you a gracious way out of your situation. I do know what I’m talking about. This won’t hurt you. It ain’t gonna make you sleep – it’ll _let_ you. No more tossing, turning, or nightmares. Just blank Zs. So, take your damn medicine.” 

Danse stared at the tabletop. To pollute his body with chems was a ludicrous suggestion. Surely, this idea flew in the face of all types of regulations. True, there were some officers that used Buffout on occasion, and the use of Med-X was constantly being reevaluated...

As firelight flicked, he studied John’s stately face. “Over time, will it…I mean…will I…”

John shook his head as he tapped air bubbles from the syringe. “It’s not something you get addicted to. Not unless you really, really learn to love naps, that is. Just don’t take every day. Save it for the bad nights. And the ones that might be wasted thrashing while you’ve got a hot guy in your bed.” John held out his hand, gave a soft smile and asked, “Do you trust me?”

Of course he trusted John. He wouldn’t risk being with him otherwise. Danse’s fist balled on the table as he spotted the purple bruises his fingers had left on John’s throat. One day, he could wake up to find John dead, murdered by his own unconscious hands. John, or one of his team-mates. He couldn’t continue like this. Danse reluctantly extended his palm, pulling his free arm down to rest on the table. He nodded and allowed John to handle the injection. The thin man studiously glided the needle into one of the veins snaking along the outside of Danse’s swollen muscles. “You know your way around this,” Danse said as the trace amount of liquid in the vial disappeared into his body.

John slid the needle out. “I like life and everything that it offers. I’m not in the habit of wasting any of it.” He capped the used syringe and tossed it with little regard for littering. “I get high and everything is perfect. For a little while, anyway.”

“Would you ever consider stopping?” Danse asked, wiping a drop of blood from the injection site with a thumb.

“What – using? No.” John shot back, “Would you ever consider leaving your faction?”

Danse jolted at the abrupt change of subject. “The Brotherhood? Doesn’t be absurd. Absolutely not. They’re my family.”

“Then, we’re both allowed things that are bad for us.” John pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one.

Danse wondered how long John had been planning that outburst. “You’re smoking again,” he noted, disappointed. John’s smoking usually tapered off after the first day of their visits, once he felt more at ease. 

“Yeah. I do that, too,” John grumbled around his smoke, clearly annoyed. “I also drink heavily and enjoy fucking. Maybe we’ve met?”

Danse regretted saying anything. His life was easier when he was either giving commands or keeping to himself. He moved himself out of the light and over to their bedrolls. As he tucked into a cold bowl of Blamo, his shoulders began to unknot and loosen. The slightest hint of fogginess hinted at his perception as the chem went to work. This wasn’t at all the way he thought chems would feel like. There was no high, no sense of either euphoria or mania. He just felt…content. And surprisingly drowsy.

The now-empty bowl was pushed aside and Danse found himself wondering about John’s own relationship with chems. Calm enough now from the chems and calories, he called, “Should I be worried about you? About the chems and…and the lifestyle that goes with it?” Bracing his back against the back-end of the bar, he slumped into a more comfortable position. 

John appeared, wandering around one side of the soda bar, light from the fire barrel rippling over him in ginger waves. His cigarette was gone, and his eyes were troubled as if fearing he’d pushed Danse too far. “No, don’t,” he patiently affirmed. “Sowed my oats long ago. Became somebody else’s problem for a while. The shit I put him through…I know my limits now.”

Danse guessed that must have been the same friend John had mentioned before. He wasn’t sure if John would ever tell him the entire story about that individual. But Danse himself was in no hurry to explain his relationship with Cutler. They were each allowed to have their own past.

John moved to join him on the bedrolls. He lay on his stomach, arms folded under his head as he looked up at Danse. The few candles stuck to the bar top granted them just enough illumination to make out expressions. “Be straight with me,” John pled. “Does all this Brotherhood shit make you happy?”

“I’m not…I don’t understand the question.”

With a grunt, John said, “Either you’re happy with them or you ain’t. It’s not a tough question.”

Danse had never thought about it. “I’m…very proud of what I’ve accomplished. They make me feel as if I’m part of something enormous and vastly important. I have honor. I have respect.”

“But are you happy?”

“I don’t really think that _happiness_ plays a factor.”

A deep sigh heaved out of John’s lungs. “Dan, I ain’t gonna beat around the bush – I like you. Think that’s fairly obvious by now. But I absolutely hate what you do. So…I don’t want to know about it. I won’t bring it up and you won’t say anything. Deal?”

“Really?” Danse’s brows rose. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that idea.

“Just you. Just me. No Commonwealth and no Capital,” John insisted. “Sides, you honestly want to tell me all about your mantras and your stories and about that one time when you blew that one thing up? That how you want to spend our time?”

“Not especially,” Danse conceded. He liked John back and would have enjoyed saying it but wasn’t sure of how to break with deep-rooted decorum. In weak moments, his training did feel like a hindrance. “I’m sorry if I seem to be stuck in a pattern. I don’t have much, if any, experience fraternizing with someone outside of the Brotherhood. I’m afraid I don’t really know what to say in conversation. I’m not…certain of what I can offer you.”    

A slow smile spread across John’s face as he sat up. “I don’t think you get to choose who comes into your life and when. Though some of what we’ve got sucks, there’s good stuff here.” He moved closer, delicately tracing a thumb down the vertical scar that marred Danse’s eye from brow to cheek. “I want to run away with you. For a few days at a time. After that, maybe a few more. And while that happens, not give a damn about anything else. Can I have that much?”

Relaxed and blissfully relieved at John’s acceptance of his own slow acclimation to their relationship, Danse leaned forward to kiss him on bridge of his nose. “Absolutely.”


	12. Every Damned Day

DANSE

Rivet City, VA

January 1st, 2288

The cracked tile floor of the Citadel showers provided a series of runoffs that allowed water to pool around the edges of the room and occasionally escape the facilities, trickling out the doors and making the earth outside the barracks squish each time someone stepped on it. Without windows or proper ventilation, steam would build up on the inside of the shower room, creating a sauna effect to the delight of battle-weary soldiers just back from the field.

Danse sighed into the steam of hot water cascading over his face, loosening the blood and centaur gore that clung to his skin. The timer pinged too soon, and the spray slowed to a dribble. He rubbed a fist across his eyes and grabbed a towel. Having lost the rush of water over his ears, the ambient sounds of chatter amplified. As he made his way to the dressing area, he tried to keep his eyes down, avoiding catching sight of his brothers in various stages of undress. It wouldn’t do for someone to catch him staring. That would be catastrophic.

This was an old habit by now, and he knew that most of his paranoia was in his head. Still, the cheap jokes that his raunchier brothers made stung, ignorant of the fact that their superior was one of those _fairies_ from the pre-war beefcake pictures that tended to get passed around in jest. He was well-versed in closing his ears and allocating focus to more important issues.

The steam was thick, a veritable miasma so dense that it took some force to move through it. His ears popped, and a droning of static filled the room as if someone had switched on a radio without bothering to find a station. Someone stepped out of Danse’s path – he saw their feet move – and the moist steam parted, granting him a glance into one of the broken mirrors that lined the wall above the sinks. Cutler stared back at him from the fog-free surface.  

Heart dropping into his stomach, Danse whirled. Cutler was nowhere to be seen. Oblivious, the other soldiers talked and dressed, engrossed in their own activities. The men had no faces, just blank skin stretched tight over the front of their skulls.

Horrified, Danse whipped back to face the mirror. An out-of-breath Cutler locked eyes with him. Danse clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a cry, as did Cutler, copying him, the suppressing hand opposite of Danse’s own. The image in the mirror wavered, Cutler’s visage dissolving into Danse’s reflection and back again, morphing faster and faster as the crackle of static rose to a deafening peak. Danse squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the earsplitting sound, lids scrunched so tight that white lights began to burst against his eyeballs. The light grew painfully bright, and he opened his eyes to relieve the pressure.

Flat gray steel and salt air greeted him, the world silent but for a few squawking radgulls in the distance and the slow, steady groan of the ship beneath him. The strange dream faded, taking specifics with it as it went, leaving only a vague sense of perplexity in its stead. Danse blinked the last remnants of slumber from his eyes as the chill of morning stung at his nose, cheeks, and ear tips.

John still slept, facing him, one hand knotted in the collar of his coat, drawing it closed underneath his chin. A memory surfaced of how John would sleep safe in the confines of Danse’s thickset arms. Danse watched him sleep, looking for any sign of _his_ John in this ghoul’s face. Only the shape of his face was similar, skin stretched tight over familiar cheekbones and the tapered angle of his chin. He observed the gentle rise and fall of the ghoul’s side with each slow, even breath. His skin might have tightened, spilt and warped, but John McDonough was still alive, trapped within an abomination. Danse had the sudden urge to touch him, to feel the texture of his features slide under his fingertips. He freed his hand from his sleeping bag and reached out before stopping himself.

As if sensing him, John opened his tar-black eyes and the moment was over. Danse reeled his hand back in and sat up, flipping the sleeping bag open. The air was brisk but bearable. He rolled the bedroll up as John rose beside him. Danse kept his back to him, busying himself by stacking provisions and checking the sidearm given to him in Goodneighbor. The clank and rattle sound of a Jet canister being shaken betrayed John’s actions and Danse heard several inhalations, one after the other. He could smell the Jet fumes and stalked across the deck to escape, trying to button his flannel shirt across his broad chest without success. Reaching the side of the ship, he let the shirt hang open over his tee and took in the sights of the Capital’s skyline.

To the north, the blocky ruins of D.C. rose in the distance. The crumbling obelisk of the Washington Monument and the jutting spire atop the Capital Building appeared exactly as he remembered them. Danse wandered to the railing and peered down the side of the ship. Bright sun danced off the water’s surface. There was a clearing between the rocky coastline and the paved road. A water rationing site had been located there after Project Purity had been initiated. He recalled handing out bottles of water to the people of Wasteland, feeling like a hero as civilians cried and thanked him. He had never felt prouder to have been a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. That part had been real, perhaps the very first thing he’d done under Brotherhood command. But before that…his body, his rank, the serial number on his holotags, the model number of his unit, even his name, had all been decided upon by Institute committee.

Nearby, the click of a lighter shook Danse from his bleak musings. John had joined him at the railing, a cigarette fixed between his withered lips. “You need me to throw you a rope?” he offered as the tip caught. He sucked a lungful of smoke and pulled the stick away. “I can’t keep pulling you out of that pit, Dan. At some point, you’re gonna haveta start saving yourself.”

Danse jerked at John’s words. One – he hadn’t been aware that he wore his misery so plainly on his face, and two – he realized that he did have a single title that the Institute wasn’t responsible for. _Dan._ That silly nickname of John’s was his, was theirs, something impromptu that had come from a real-life bond he’d been responsible for instigating. Still battling internal turmoil, Danse blurted, “Don’t you feel ridiculous?”

“Why would I?” John took another drag, brow cocked as he braced elbows on the rickety barrier.

“To have wasted emotion on a machine.”

John huffed, smoke escaping through his teeth as his eyes drifted over the skyline. “I never wasted anything on you.”

That old, accustomed block of guilt dropped into Danse’s stomach. He wished he could share John’s convictions, and was envious of his unwavering compassion and support, even when it reached ridiculous heights such as his open-door entrance policy into Goodneighbor, enabling disorderly behavior…or harboring synth fugitives. Even in light of their current situation, Danse struggled to appreciate John’s fondness for anarchy. Perhaps the desire for structure and strict guidelines was part of Danse’s programming, a way to ensure that he was operating correctly.   

“It was easier,” Danse confessed.

“Huh?” John turned his gaze from the city, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. “What was?”

Danse’s hands clutched at the corroded rail, and he watch his thumbs trail absent-mindedly over salt-eaten steel. “To give myself fully to the Brotherhood. To not think of you. To stop making decisions for myself.” Danse’s breathing was uneven, edgy. He shook his head, wishing he could master the basics of normal conversation. “Once I joined the division aboard the Prydwen and stopped taking furloughs, I found a…a clarity of purpose that I never knew I was capable of. It made me a better soldier. It made the answers to everything…easier.”

“Without me bogging you down, ya mean,” John added.

“I…yes. Without you,” admitted Danse, that guilt-brick growing heavier as he chanced raising his head.

“Well, glad it was all rainbows and puppies on your end,” John griped, flicking his filter over the side of the ship. “Wasn’t so much on mine, what with my skin coming off and the constant threat of assassination.” John didn’t appear angry, just resigned to his fate.

“I know. And I really do feel remorse over any action that may have led you to that point,” Danse insisted, shame cresting into disgrace. “I fear I may have inadvertently done more harm than good in my life.”

A frail smile cut across John’s face. “Life’s not over. There’s still plenty of good you can do.” He butted Danse with his shoulder, a subtle sign of encouragement. “I was born into this world. But you? You were made for it. If anybody’s gonna be there at the end, it’s you. You’re a fighter, a real Wasteland warrior. I know this is a rough concept for you, but don’t get lost in your head. Everything’s gonna work itself out. You’ll still get that glory you care so much about. Just haveta go at it a little differently.” 

Invigorated by John’s words, Danse allowed for a small smile. They were alone up top, and Danse was grateful for the privacy. A few serene moments passed between them before Danse asked, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Know me better than I do.”

John gave a rusty laugh. “You’re not that complicated.”

The brick in Danse’s gut dissolved, and his tense exterior melted as he took a loose hold of John’s hand. Tentative fingers traveled, weaving together. John’s skin was warm, the texture a bit stiff yet pliable, not unlike scar tissue. Moving slowly, lest he shock himself into changing his mind, Danse leaned until his shoulder was near to John’s. John met him the rest of the way. They stood, arms touching, elbows on the metal rail, letting the sea breeze rustle their clothing, surrounded by salt air and sunlight.

Danse had to wonder if this was his life now – running, hunted forever, never seeing Haylen again, and continuing to reinforce an emotional barrier with John, who, despite Danse’s insults and the differences in their points-of-view, continued to offer himself as a brief respite between torments. John had his own collection of problems without adding Danse’s to his own. He was still a ghoul, and a degrading one, at that, battling the atrophy of his own mind that would undoubtably leave him feral sooner rather than later. Danse felt more pity than fear at that idea, and a swelling sadness that John had to face it alone. 

Danse hefted a sigh, tired of getting in his own way, and wrapped an arm around John’s waist. John leaned into him, nestling his cheek into Danse’s chest. This felt…so familiar, almost normal, harkening back to when they’d both been unquestionably human.

“I miss you,” John confessed in a rush of exhale. “Every damned day, I miss you.” He wiggled in Danse’s hold and slightly pushed away. “I ain’t expecting…” He aggressively shook his head, hat waggling. “I’m not…”

“It’s alright.” Danse felt deflated, although he wasn’t sure why.

“No, that ain’t…” Black eyes rose to meet Danse’s; there was fear in them. John’s shoulders tightened as he garbled, “I…I can’t find the words. They’re there, but I can’t…Dammit.”

“Is it…your condition?” Danse wondered, apprehension swirling up from inside. “Curie’s compound –”

“I’m out,” John divulged, looking sheepish. “I’ve been high and concerned of late. Got sloppy about maintaining a supply. And I don’t have the kinda connections here that I have up north. I’m…gonna haveta go without for a while.”

Danse stared, emotions slamming into him with brutal strength. They were here, tethering at the edge of a resolution between them and John could snap at any moment. The injustice of it was staggering. He’d been trained for this, knew what he had to do, what he’d had to do for Cutler…

But Cutler hadn’t been real, not in the way he remembered. John was, and always had been. No. This wasn’t the end. They still had more time. Danse would fight it, would fight for every last moment. He grabbed at John and pulled him back into their embrace. A shudder passed through John before he raised his arms to return the affection. The ship creaked as they stood in silence, holding each other as the sun warmed their clothes.  

“D’aww. That’s just adorable!” a voice cooed from behind them. “I’m really feeling the whole Montague–slash–Capulet thing. It works for you, really. Sucker punch right to the feels.”

Startled, they broke apart, Danse pulling his handgun as he scanned the flight deck. Deacon stood, arms casually folded, in the shadow of one of the defunct fighter jets that were scattered across the deck, wearing a fresh, black suit with a silver tie, looking to the world as if he belonged in one of the Upper Deck cabins. He was grinning wildly, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind his shades. The barrel of a rifle poked over one shoulder. A pocket square and top hat completed his ensemble, pushing the outfit into Deacon’s standard realm of absurdity.

“What the hell are you doing here?” John groused. Despite it being one of their teammates, he still wandered to retrieve his shotgun.

Giving a simple shrug, Deacon said, “I’m rescuing synths, like one does. That’s my job, you know.”

Danse found himself rooted where he stood. He had been found. If a Railroad agent had tracked them this far, he was certain that the local Brotherhood division could locate him just as easily. “We…how much did you hear?” he cautiously asked. There was a limit to how many secrets he could live with.

Deacon removed his hat and spun it by the brim. He was bald today. “Just the parts I couldn’t help listening to.”

Goddammit. Danse felt flayed open, everything that he wanted – needed – to keep hidden there for the world to see. “How did you find me?”

“Oh, I didn’t find _you_ ,” Deacon specified, stepping into the sunlight. He gestured to John with his hat. “I found _him_. Commonwealth’s got more liberal views on ghouls than the Capital does. Somebody like our mayor here…well, he tends to stand out. That, and the local Railroad sector still pulls through now and again,” Deacon added.

“So, now what?” John griped, still bristling. Danse couldn’t blame him; he felt just as irked. Deacon’s appearance had severed the closest moment they’d had in years.

Sudden ionization made the hairs on Danse’s arms go up. The air seemed to shift as if on the cusp of an electrical storm. But the skies remained clear, and Danse felt mounting alarm. John’s frock flared out as he spun, searching for the source of the disruption while clutching his shotgun.

“Weeell,” Deacon drawled. “About that.” He tossed his hat off to one side. It went spinning sideways before skittering across the deck. “Brace yourselves.” Loosening his tie, Deacon pointed up at the sky. “We’re gonna find out in about three, two, one –”

A column of white light slammed downwards into the aircraft carrier with a thunderous crack. Bolts of blue lightning spiked and flashed from within that fizzling pillar. Danse squinted into the flare and tried to ready a shot. He knew what it was, had seen Sterling disappear into the relay built at the Boston Airport and rematerialize time and again within Sanctuary. Someone was coming.

With a whoosh of sound, the light dissipated, leaving a lone figure in its wake. X6-88 stood before them, his skin the color of molasses, heavy black coat falling to his ankles, stark-white Institute rifle drawn and leveled. The courser’s face looked chiseled, frozen, eyes concealed behind his sunglasses. “X6,” Danse spat disdainfully, staring down the sight of his gun. He had tolerated the courser in the presence of Knight Sterling. His vault-dwelling pupil had insisted on peace between both parties and had received it without question, as Danse had been instructed to do. “What in God’s name are you doing in Rivet City?”

“Yeah, that’d be my bad,” Deacon piped up. “I brought him here.”

“Your assistance in this matter, while unexpected, has been most appreciated,” X6-88 addressed the spy, his smooth voice impassive. He then turned his attention to Danse. “M7-97, initialize factory reset.”


	13. Part of the Plan

DEACON

Rivet City, VA

January 1st, 2288

Fully exposed on the Rivet City sundeck, Deacon shrugged out of his suit jacket as his keen eyes roamed. The runway was mostly clear of obstacles, a few pieces of useless aircraft scattered here and there. X6-88 was smack between him and Danse, who stood shock-still by the railing with his gun drawn and his mouth wide open. It was actually kind of amusing. John was halfway on his way back from the campsite, too far away to effectively spray pellets. Deacon wasn’t particularly concerned – he could tell how this was about to unfold.

Honestly, the whole thing hadn’t been too hard to set up. In the Commonwealth, power armor got left all over the place, and that bad was on the pre-war military. Well, and the bombs, although it felt slightly infantile to continuously blame the bombs for all the world’s problems. Deacon had nabbed a single suit stranded in some marsh in Suffolk, donned it, fallen in step with a Brotherhood patrol in Southie and whispered a few choice facts to the greenest-looking member of the group. Some things never change, and that hungry initiate had gone running to her superiors, eager to climb her way up the ranks.

Deacon had disappeared after that, his duty done, hopping the next transport to the Capital, outrunning the news and the vertibird gunships that were sure to follow. Now that the Brotherhood knew their wayward infiltrator was on its way to the Capital, all alerts would go out, making a fuss and ensuring that everyone and their grandmother knew that big, bad M7-97 was on the move. Everyone. Everywhere. The Brotherhood’s folly – one of them – was thinking that they were the toughest kid in the park. Of course the Institute had their lines tapped. Duh. Like radio waves didn’t get picked up like venereal diseases in popular towns. That had been the whole point, to get somebody in a black coat sent out to intercept their asset. But, this was unexpected. Of all the coursers in all the Commonwealth, this was the one the Institute sent? The universe had a funny sense of humor sometimes. 

“M7-97, initialize factory reset.” X6-88 droned. “Authorization code –”

A blast of green plasma energy intervened, knocking the laser rifle out of the courser’s hand and sending it spinning overboard. “X6!” a clear voice shouted across the deck. X6-88 regarded his empty hand before turning calmly to face his attacker. Harkness had his plasma rifle up to his eye, staring the courser down as he stalked across the sundeck. “Those were my shades first,” he said, coming to a halt a few yards away.

“A3-21,” X6-88 replied, unperturbed. He turned to fully face the other synth. “This is an unexpected surprise. Still toting the same weapon, I see. How negligent of you to reveal your whereabouts. I’ll be certain to send a second unit for you.”

Harkness fired a second shot. This one caught X6-88 squarely in the chest. The courser staggered slightly but didn’t appear to feel the blow, even as his coat smoked and burned. Good-ol-boy Danse joined the firefight, sending several bullets flying at the courser’s back. The armored coat deflected the shots. “Stop!” Deacon shouted, running at Danse as panic ignited, sending needles shooting down his limbs. He shoved the burly soldier’s arm down. “You’re gonna ruin everything!”

“Are you mad?” Danse snarled through clenched teeth.

“Like a hatter,” acknowledged Deacon. “But, you gotta trust me.” Harkness knew what he was doing. Deacon had spent the morning convincing him that this plan wasn’t suicide. 

X6-88 twirled, flicking a shock baton out of one sleeve, segments of metal rod sliding into place as the weapon extended to its full length and sizzling energy sprang from the tip. Using the distraction to his advantage, Harkness charged, sending stream after stream of energy blasting into X6-88, causing his coat to melt and smolder. X6-88 swiveled and jabbed, and the baton sent sparks shooting into Harkness’ side as he passed too close. The guard bellowed as he swung the metal stock of his rifle up to slam X6-88 under the chin. He followed with a vicious kick to X6-88’s stomach, sending him staggering backwards.

“Um, yeah. Those are two coursers. Time to step back,” Deacon warned Danse. As they edged away from the fight to duck behind an oxidized fighter jet, John rushed to join them, tumbling low to avoid stray shots, crabbing until he reached them. “Was this your fucking mistake?” he growled at Deacon.

“Kinda-sorta-but-not-really,” Deacon acknowledged as he pulled his rifle and chambered a round. “See, this is the point where you run,” he told Danse. The big idiot looked confused at the suggestion. Deacon groaned. “Tall, dark, and scary is here for _you_!” he pressed. “Disappear while we handle this. You can’t risk the Institute claiming your metal brain-meats!”

John grabbed Danse’s arm and shoved him brusquely in the direction of the Upper Deck cabins. At John’s insistence, Danse reluctantly escaped, vanishing down a set of stairs that led down the side of the ship. There came a stunned cry and Harkness went flying by, his body slamming into another jet, the impact causing the entire craft to tip onto its side. “Alright, fuck this noise,” John cursed, hauling his shotgun up. “If you’ve been waiting to see me lose my shit, here it comes,” he promised, pumping the slide.

“Knew you had it in you,” Deacon commended as they sprang out of cover. They both opened fire, blasting holes in the courser’s back, tearing chunks out of the weakened bicast leather coat. “Don’t damage the head!” Deacon shouted to John over the roar of gunfire. John’s shotgun blew a larger spray of pellets at X6-88’s torso while Deacon switched tactics and aimed for the approaching courser’s legs. X6-88 pushed forward, maneuvering close as his protective coat shredded. He grabbed John’s shotgun by the fore end and wrenched it hard, pulling John with it. Too small and light to contend with a courser, the ghoul was tossed like a doll and went sliding some twenty-feet across the deck, his back hitting the railing of the ship hard enough to make to wobble as the shotgun went sailing over the side and into the water below.  

Deacon found himself alone, facing down a courser, and wished his disguise had come with a rubber diaper. “Well…this sucks.” Though X6-88’s coat was in bad shape, they hadn’t begun to cause much damage to the synth himself. The courser lifted his baton to land what Deacon was sure to be a forceful blow that. While the impact might not kill him outright, the electroshock would certainly make him wish it had. He’d begun to regret plotting any of this when a green streak of energy struck X6-88 in the face, blowing his sunglasses off and knocking him back, leaving a strip of raw, red flesh across the bridge of his nose. “Hey!” Deacon snapped. Jeez, one careless shot and all of this would be for nothing. He gave a wild glance off to one side. “Why’d I say about the head? It’s like you’re not even listening. What about my needs, my feelings, huh?”  

“I’m full up on your feelings,” Harkness griped as he stalked over despite a limp, struggling to hold his rifle steady. “You never stop talking.”

Powerful, gloved hands grabbed Deacon’s shoulders before he could make a witty remark and flung him into Harkness. The guard raised his weapon out of the way an instant before they collided with enough force to knock the wind from Deacon’s lungs, and they both bowled to the ground. Deacon’s rifle and Harkness’s plasma gun clattered across the deck. As the two operatives shoved away from each other, X6-88’s figure towered over them, his baton, shooting deadly sparks, was positioned like a sword at his side. “What a glorious day for the Institute,” the courser admired. A cruel smile looked wrong on his face, and his icy blue eyes shined with pride. “Returning two lost assets and ending a Railroad agent – I’ll have the new director’s esteem soon enough. How unfortunate that he favors you insects. But I’m the best the Institute has ever built. You stood little chance.” 

Danse loomed up from behind X6-88, wrapped his arms around the courser’s head, and in a single, fluid move, snapped its neck. X6-88 collapsed in a lifeless heap, his cold eyes still open. Danse’s arms dropped, his barrel chest heaving what seemed to be a dissatisfied sigh as he regarded the dead courser.

Feeling a little battle-drunk on adrenaline and fear, Deacon tottered to his feet and whined, “You stole my victory, man. Now I’m never gonna get that marble stature erected in my honor.” It had kinda been pie-in-the-sky that Danse would abandon a firefight. Instead, he’d used his escape as a tactical smokescreen. Clever boy.

“Don’t address me, traitor.” Agitation knotted Danse’s shoulders and his clenched fists shook where they hung at his sides. He stomped off to check on John, who was leaning over the railing of the ship, bent almost double as he looked down its side. “Shit,” the ghoul grumbled. “I loved that gun.” Harkness had recovered his plasm rifle and was frowning down at X6-88’s body, shaking his head.

“Wow. Nobody’s happy,” Deacon grumbled, throwing his hands up. He pursed his lips and walked a short distance to retrieve his gun and suit jacket. This might seem like a small victory for them, but this was a huge turning point for the Railroad. The very way they operated was about to change. As he swung the coat over his shoulder, someone grabbed him by the upper arm.

“We had an agreement,” Harkness reminded, his blue eyes hard, one extra-strong hand tight on Deacon’s arm. “You keep your bullshit off my boat.” Harkness let go of him and began to hobble away.

“Hey…Bishop. Wait.” Deacon whispered, rushing to catch up. Though Harkness stopped, he kept his back turned. “I’m sorry about all this. But…thanks. This is gonna mean a lot to a lot of people.”

“Just clean that up,” Harkness demanded, nodding towards X6-88’s body. “I don’t pick up after you anymore.” He resumed his path, making a loop around the flight deck, likely checking for damage or ensuring that they were the only witnesses.

Well, that hurt. Looked like their short truce was over. Deacon wiped at a smudge on his glasses as he reminisced. They’d been real, live friends once, he and Harkness. Back in his Capital days, one of Deacon’s mission objectives had been to ensure that a compromised A3 unit be either re-wiped or neutralized – a nice way of saying _shot in the head_ – as a former courser with intact memories of countless recall codes was a terrifying prospect. Instead, Deacon had managed to recruit him to their side and used A3’s memories to assist the Railroad. Harkness’ codename had been Bishop, because, hey, _Bishop and Deacon_ sounded pretty cute. They’d been partners during the _One of Us, One of Them_ policy in the Railroad, which was ultimately deemed too divisive. Bishop had been the muscle and the brain while Deacon had been the mouth and the eyes. But Bishop had always sported a big heart, a dangerous thing to have in their line of work, and Deacon’s seemingly cold, aloof manner had been the friction that had ruined their partnership. As the Railroad had never been much of a home for Bishop, he was happy to stay on his ship doing side jobs while Deacon went north. Though Deacon would never admit it verbally, he missed the guy, and he’d been the only person outside of Fixer to know about Barbara. Even Dez didn’t have that piece of info. In moments of weak constitution, he regretted losing his friend. 

“You brought it here,” Danse snarled as Deacon went past. He followed close on Deacon’s heels, with John a step behind.

“Of course, I did.” Deacon set aside his rifle and jacket, unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves. “I tipped off the Shitheads of Steel, too.”

“You…you, what?” Danse looked punctured, all his pomp and bravado fading away into nothingness as his eyes dulled.

Deacon flipped out a short knife and knelt over the courser’s body. He drove the knifepoint through the base of its skull. “Part of the plan,” he said, sawing around bone. “Had to ring the dinner bell. They’re probably on their way right now.” Grunting, fingers wet with blood, he fought to pull back skin. “Well, I had to make enough noise for the Institute to get wind of it, didn’t I? Brotherhood clogging airwaves and terminal feeds would do just the trick. You’re way too valuable for the Institute to let you get tossed into some mass grave.” He fished around on the inside of the courser’s head. There was no brain, of course, just a cavern that housed a synth component. His fingertips brushed over a smooth, rounded surface about the same size and shape as a light bulb. He worked to gently dislodge it. “They want what you have. They’ll want you alive when they pull your memories out of your head by force. Didn’t know who they’d send, but they sure as hell were gonna send someone.”

“Why did you do this to me?” Danse sounded horrified, like this was some personal vendetta come to fruition. Deacon rolled his eyes. Stupid Institute. Shoulda named him _Paladin Dense_.

“Hate to break it to you, pal – you might be a big deal to those two sides, but to the Railroad, you’re not that important.” Deacon held up a bloody synth component containing a Courser Chip. “ _This is_.” He pulled off his tie, wrapped it around the component and pocketed it. “If we crack it, we get it all – Institute passwords, personnel files, history, the whole shebang. If we’re lucky, we can even pop in and out, just like Fixer. And why would anyone suspect the Railroad?” He nodded to Danse. “Institute’ll think this was all you.”  

“You rat damn bastard, you used him as bait?” Ire sparked in John’s dark eyes.

“I didn’t _use_ him. I took advantage of an opportunity,” said Deacon, rising from his crouch. If any of them had gotten killed in the exchange…well, sacrifice was nothing new to the Railroad. The cost of freedom was always high. “I play all the angles. You gotta know that by now.”

“What do I do now?” asked Danse, eyes fixed on the bloody wreckage of the courser’s head.  

Harkness had returned, his weapon back in its holster. “Only solution: Wipe and run. Railroad’ll erase your memories and you can start over.”

Danse seemed to settle back into the present, his eyes sharpening. “Run? Leave the Capital Wasteland? Leave the Commonwealth? Forever?”

“That’s how it works,” Harkness added as Deacon used his jacket to wipe his hands clean. “New name, new face, new history. Everything else is gone for good.”

Reality seemed to be hitting Danse hard. He was out of breath, and his forehead shiny with sweat. John stepped in front of Danse, chest puffed, jaw set as if ready for a showdown. “Why is that the better option?” he snarled. “He’s already running. And he’ll keep doin’ that.”

Deacon tossed the sullied jacket aside and picked up his rifle, explaining, “When a synth knows what it is, that’s when it starts to act weird. That’s when the unit is just an actor, potentially, a bad one. The risk of discovery goes up.” He slung his rifle over his back and tried to catch Danse’s broken stare. “The more you think about it, the more you try to focus on the details of a memory, the more cracks you knock in the wall,” he warned, tapping his temple with a finger. “Better not to remember anything.” Sure, being wiped had to suck – not that he’d ever undergone the procedure himself, though he’d have loved to – but if Danse’s entire life had been violent, Brotherhood rhetoric, it would be a kindness to delete it. 

“But…where would I go?” Danse asked, sounding pitiful and lost.

“I hear the Mojave cleaned up nice.” Rolling his sleeves back down, Deacon spotted specks of blood splattered all over his shirt. Oh, well. He’d find himself in a new disguise soon enough. Since he wasn’t wholly without empathy, he added, “Sorry, pal, but that’s how it goes. Look – live, die, do whatever you need to do. The world’s a whole lot bigger than you and it’s gonna keep on spinning. We’ve still got a war to fight, but you? You can be done.” Danse resembled a kicked puppy, cowed and defeated. A kicked puppy who’d also been told there was no Santa Claus. Deacon sighed and patted Danse on the arm. His voice was soft and, hopefully, reassuring, as he said, “There’s no magic solution. This is how it can all go away for you. This is how you escape for good.”

Danse’s nod started off small but grew into forceful intensity. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

Color drained from John’s rad-ripped face. Poor guy. Like he didn’t know this was where it was all leading from the start.


	14. This Body

DANSE

Rivet City, VA

January 1st, 2288

He should have been proud. He should have been ecstatic at having dispatched a courser with his bare hands, as it was a stunning victory for any solider worth his rank. Instead, as he watched Harkness and Deacon roll X6-88’s weighted body over the side of the ship, he just felt sick. There were no allies in hiding, ready to receive him. There would be no salvation. John stuck by his side, close enough to touch, to cling to and sob his anguish. Danse reached the end of the line and could go no further.

“They know where I am. Both the Institute and the Brotherhood,” he said, the words meant more for himself than for John. He didn’t stand a chance against both forces converging on him. Surely, when X6-88 failed to return, another courser would be sent in his place, then another, then another. The Institute did not lack for resources. And his brothers – his former brothers – would fight him to the death, as they’d been ordered. In those scenarios, even if Danse gained the upper hand, he would still lose, the blood on his hands disgracefully acquired. He couldn’t stomach the thought of anyone dying fighting either for or against him. “It’s over. The cost of my survival is just too high.”

John stared straight ahead, eyes glued to the vastness of open water. Sunlight was patchy as grey clouds rolled in, a stormfront gathering on the horizon. “If you go through with this, you really are a coward.” Danse scowled at that. “I stopped running,” continued John. “But you do this, and all you’ve ever done is hide.”

“You don’t understand,” Danse argued. “You’ve never been responsible for much more than yourself.” John didn’t answer and instead kept his focus on the water, looking sullen as he grinded his teeth. _Good,_ thought Danse. _Hurt him. Push him away._ _Make this choice easier to bear._

“Hey, if we’re doing this,” said Deacon crossing the deck, Harkness a step behind, “it should be now.”

The Railroad had posed a solution, one that would put an end to his nightmares and the crystal clarity of recalling old battles, who he was, who Cutler was...who John was. It could all be over. This might be the one decision that Danse had ever truly been responsible for.

Danse met the agents, John trailing behind like a shadow. They left their campsite items – almost everything belonged to Rivet City, anyways – and descended the outer stairs, avoiding returning to the inside of the ship. The short sections of stairs twisted now and again, and they wove their way down to the gangway. After scuttling across it, they dipped through the scaffolding on the opposite side. The Brotherhood outpost that had stood at the base was vacant, graffiti blurring the emblems that had been painted onto the tin walls. Across the river, the Jefferson Memorial rose above the waterline in a mass of piping, marble, and Brotherhood insignias, pumping great spouts of fresh water into the Potomac, enormous clouds of condensation billowing at the surface. Danse felt a jolt at seeing it again, and his mind did flips as to whether that was a lie and he was observing it for the first time.

The bow of the Rivet City carrier had broken off and was partially submerged near the bank. Harkness replaced Deacon’s lead, guiding the group across a series of suspended grates that led to the bow, irradiated water lapping at their feet, a thin layer of algae threatening to make them slip. Harkness spun the wheel on a bulkhead and propped it open. “Step where I step,” he warned. “The bow is heavily defended.”

Though Danse couldn’t image what secret lay in a busted section of a forgotten and demolished city, he felt muddled and slightly weightless, traveling through the bow without even sensing his footfalls. He and the others mirrored Harkness, avoiding tripwires and mines, passing through one bulkhead after another, slowly working their way deeper and deeper into the bow. “If you like mirelurks, this is how we get mirelurks,” Deacon grumbled into the damp, stale air as they slogged through ankle-deep salt water.

Onwards they went, traipsing through one narrow passage after another until they reached a sealed bulkhead where Harkness held up a fist. Danse came to an immediate halt, the others stumbling to a stop behind. They waited while Harkness cranked the release with a rusty clang that echoed all throughout the abandoned bow. He pulled it open and poked his head inside. “Sir?” he called over the roar of generator chirring that spilled out of the room. “Are you awake? I’ve brought someone to see you.”

“Who is it?” a cranky voice answered. “What do you want?”

Harkness tosses an apologetic glance over his shoulder before entering. The others followed. Under the glow of weak lightbulbs and electronic equipment, a multi-level chamber containing a makeshift laboratory and clinic with a mounted computer, surgical tools and a rolling gurney came into view. There were living quarters in one corner, just a bed and some shelving, good enough by Wasteland standards. A positively ancient man, the skin of his face drooping like a well-melted candle, sat in a chair facing the doorway, a level-action rifle in his lap. “You owe me a crate of supplies, Bishop. You’re three days past.”

“Trade’s been hard to come by, sir.” Harkness moved to stand behind the old man, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder that also stayed the use of his rifle. “The city isn’t what it used to be, remember? I’ll see what I can find.”

As Danse and John lingered by the doorway, Deacon Strode towards the center of the room, mouth gaping. “Wow. Pinkerton, still alive. Pickled, I see. Well, that’s one way to fight mortality.”

The old man leaned forward and narrowed deeply wrinkled eyes. “Do I know you?”

“You did, yeah,” said Deacon. “I had a different face back then.”

Pinkerton settled back in his chair. “Ah. You’re _that one_. Though we chased you off to the Commonwealth.”

“Well, what the Commonwealth lacks in centaurs, it makes up in better tech,” Deacon noted as he frowned at the equipment that surrounded them. “My kingdom for a Memory Pod. And a sensible pair of dancing shoes.”

The old man looked past Deacon to spy Danse and John. “One of you is burned up. Radiation, I assume. Not my area of expertise. But the other –” he waved Danse over “– step into the light.” Danse took a few heavy steps forward. Pinkerton blinked up at Harkness. “A return customer?”

The officer shook his head. “No. First-timer.”

“I see. Well, then –” Pinkerton got to his feet with some difficulty, handing his weapon off to Harkness, who stowed it. “Let’s find you a new life, m’boy,” he said as he ambled over to the clinic.

“I’m not…I don’t know how any of this works,” Danse muttered with mounting concern. The equipment and corresponding clinic appeared rudimentary at best. It seemed to be some brand of magic that the Railroad used to accomplish mind-wipes and facial reconstruction under these circumstances. He glanced back at John, still stagnant by the doorway. The ghoul shook his head. _You don’t have to do this,_ his eyes read.

“Don’t worry about it,” Deacon said, sliding the surgical tool trolley closer to the gurney. “S’not like you’ll remember it, anyhow.” He frowned down at the remnants of his formalwear. “Dang. I don’t have my sexy nurse costume.” He glanced over at Harkness. “Think we’ve got time for me to grab one?”

“No,” Harkness responded, his face stern.

“Sheesh. I guess every party needs a pooper.” Deacon powered on the terminal. A jumble of green lines of code scrolled through the monitor. He smacked it on one side and the monitor cleared, a single line of text asking: _READY TO BEGIN? Y/N_

“No need to be uncouth, young man,” Pinkerton admonished. Deacon beamed at being called _young_. “Many synths come in scared, trusting, few daring to ask any questions at all.” He uncoiled several lengths of cable as he spoke. “We don’t remember memories – we only remember the memory of memories. We are unreliable narrators. Each time we think of an event, our mind adds additional aspects, burying the initial occurrence under layers of fabricated details. Giving a wiped mind even the barest of outlines, well, he’ll eventually fill it with his own ideas, paint that blank canvas into a stunning work of art.” He began plugging one side of the cables into the terminal. “Tell me, officer,” he asked Harkness. “Do you remember your wife?”

Harkness jolted. “Of course I remember my wife,” he growled, bristling.

“Details, son. What did she look like?”

The scowl Harness wore faded into a thousand-yard stare. “She…had gold hair.”

“And her voice? The size of her hand in yours?”

“I…I don’t remember.”

“You see,” Pinkerton told Danse, “an impression is more easily replicated than the intricacies of actuality. We recall feelings, not facts.”

“Excuse me,” Harkness mumbled, shoving past John to make for the exit. “I have to check on my ship.” A bulkhead slammed deep in the bow.

“Don’t mind him,” said Deacon, switching on a light over the gurney. The bright light momentarily dazzled Danse. “He had rough go. Still compartmentalizing. Because, _that_ works so well.”

Pinkerton pressed the _Y_ key, and the text on the monitor scrolled down. _PREPARING INTERFACE._ A period blinked at the end of the words, beckoning. “Synth components hold everything. Experiences. Lifetimes,” Pinkerton rambled. “That’s how we, the Railroad, can delete the data on them, reconstruct them should we chose. You can build a man out of memories alone.”

“Case in point,” Deacon indicated, nodding to Danse. “A solider with full access to everything in the Brotherhood’s Rolodex is worth more way more than some saboteur. You might have underestimated the Institute’s patience. Nabbing your component after a lifetime of service might have been the key to some grand plan generations down the line.” He waggled his eyebrows as Danse gawked at him. “Mind blown, right?”

“Hop up on the table, boy,” said Pinkerton, patting the gurney.

Danse felt rooted. A step backwards and he’d be a fugitive forever. A step forward and he’d lose everything he’d gained. But he was well-versed at trading emotions for logic, and his feet carried him towards the makeshift operating theater. He sat gingerly on the edge of the cold gurney, and as he fumbled to remove the open flannel shirt, his holotags popped from the collar of his tee.

“You’re gonna want to ditch those,” Deacon stated, snapping the cuff of a latex glove over one hand.

The thin steel tags felt small and brittle as Danse rubbed them. They were little more than incriminatory evidence at this point, but the weight of meaning behind them made it a painful decision to consider removing them. They were meant to stay with his body, whatever happened to it. _His body._ Danse grunted and undid the chain. This was never his body to begin with.

“What will it be?” asked Pinkerton as Danse lay back. “Farmer? Merchant? Those are the gold standards.”

Danse swallowed and shook his head. The light above the gurney was blinding. He couldn’t see beyond it. “I don’t care. Anything that will be the exact opposite of the life I’ve led is preferable.”

“So, maypole decorator, then,” supplied Deacon. “That might be an option. We could make it work.”

“A doctor,” rasped John’s voice from across the room. “He’d still wanna help people. And the Wastes need him.” A beat of silence passed, and a sick feeling swirled in Danse’s stomach. He’d forgotten John’s presence.

“You got a file for that?” Deacon asked Pinkerton.

“I do,” said the old man before leaning into Danse’s line of sight. “I must warn you, though. There is the nominal risk of brain death.”

Danse’s response popped automatically. “This body isn’t mine. Should that outcome arise, do what you will with it.” He managed a deep breath and called, “John?” He heard the rustle of fabric, of the ghoul’s heavy coat brushing the layers underneath as he approached. He couldn’t bear to turn his head and look at him. Danse extended a fist, holding out his tags. “I won’t need these anymore. See that…well, see that they end up in the right hands. Sterling’s, or…or Haylen’s.”

John’s gnarled hand closed over his, and Danse twisted his hand in John’s grasp until their fingers laced. He looked to John, begging for reassurance. John’s eyes were pinched closed and he looked wan, sickened, as if he were the one faced with losing everything. Their woven hands tightened into a death grip, the chain from Danse’s tags dangling between their fingers.

Pinkerton approached with a sizable syringe filled with a clear fluid. For all his gumption, Danse found himself hyperventilating. Memories rolled through his mind in reverse – the Commonwealth, the Prydwen, the pride and relief of successful missions, of watching Maxson grow up, of stolen moments of humanity fueled by intervals of unwavering affection, him and a blonde-haired stranger standing under a streetlamp as the Enclave burned in the background...Danse’s life was filled with loss, and reality of adding himself to the abyss seemed suddenly overwhelming.   

“Stop!” Danse shouted, the command a croak as his heart wedged itself in his throat. Pinkerton froze, needle still in hand. Danse gulped and shook his head. “No. I won’t do this. Painful as they are – _dangerous_ are they are – I want my memories. They’re all I have left.” John’s ebony eyes popped open as Danse sat up. Their hands remained entwined. Danse blew out a slow breath and pushed himself to concentrate. Self-preservation should be his focus now. “How long do you think I have before Brotherhood forces show themselves?” he asked Deacon.

“They’re probably on their way now.”

“Or here already,” Harkness’ voice carried as he banged back in, reporting. “Two vertibirds just landed in Anacostia. Those bastards are about to board my ship,” he growled.

Fledgling hope perished, and he released John’s hand, leaving the holotags with the ghoul. “Pull the gangway back,” Danse ordered, panic clutching him tight as he got to his feet. He reached to retrieve his flannel shirt.   

Harkness shook his head in a quick snap. “Can’t. Without the reactor, we don’t have enough power to control it. It’s stuck, open and inviting.”

John hummed to himself and a half-cocked smile slid over his face. “Well, if there’s anything Brotherhood assholes hate more than synths, it’s something with mutated DNA. I’ll go. I’ll lead them on one merry fuckin’ chase.” His dark eyes twinkled with mischief.

“No offense,” started Deacon as he snapped his gloves off, “but why would the Brotherhood give any number of shits about you?”

Danse’s holotags jangled as John held them aloft. “Cause I’ve got the keys to a puzzle they wanna solve. They may not know me, but they’ll know these. Means, as far as the Brotherhood in concerned, I’m suddenly in high demand.”

“You…you’d face the entire detachment to distract them from me? Alone?” Danse asked, bowled-over by the seemingly endless vat of goodwill John was able to pull from. Of all the people who had died carrying out Danse’s bidding, John had no obligation to put himself in jeopardy. John was not his subordinate, was not responsible for assisting him. John had already done too much, brought him too far.

“Well, hey, I guess, not alone,” offered Deacon, meeting John’s confident gaze. “Least I can do is give you some back up. From a distance, of course.” To Harkness, he asked, “Think you could at least get him to the dock?”

Harkness agreed, and the two agents bickered over the best route while Pinkerton returned to his chair with his shotgun. John scrambled to assemble a small arsenal of grenades, Molotovs and dirty tricks. Danse kneeled next to John, watching him smash bottles against the floor to fill his pockets with beads of glass. It had always been him marched off to war, not John. He wondered if he would ever see him again and was struck by the realization that this was the same worry John had spent years trying to convey to him. Without meaning to, he briefly considered handing himself over to the patrol, sparing John from additional danger. “I’m not certain if my life is worth all this,” Danse said, disconsolate, as the Railroad agents bickered to one side.

An optimistic smile lit John’s face. “Ain’t that up to me?”

Danse hated himself for not being the person reflected in John’s eyes. “I didn’t choose you. I cast you aside. I want to blame the Institute, and say it was the choice I was programmed to make. But…I know I let you down, and I’m not sure how I can ever repay you for the kindness and tolerance you’ve shown me, particularly when I didn’t deserve it.”

John waved away his concern and began stuffing grenades into a canvas sack. “You’re giving the Institute way too much credit for every detail in your life. Anything we had or…gave up…that was all us.”

Despite John’s words, Danse wasn’t sure how much of himself was under his control. There were so many unanswered questions, so many chances he wasn’t even sure why he’d avoided. This couldn’t be the end, not for John and him. It just couldn’t. They had so much lost time to make up for, amends that needed to be made. “I’ll find you,” Danse promised.

John twisted the sack closed. “Where?”

Good question. “Some place where the Brotherhood has no footing. Preferably, a location off-the-grid entirely.”

After a few moments of quiet contemplation, John snorted and gave a low, scratchy laugh. “Off-the-grid, huh? I’ve got a place.” His bottomless eyes sparkled. “Wanna see where I grew up?”

“Isn’t that…Liberty Isle?” John nodded and Danse fought to recall the details. A secluded community that shunned any outside affiliation. That sounded beyond ideal. Danse stood and felt relief flood his veins. “Yes. Alright. Meet me there?”

“Sure thing,” John agreed, letting Danse give him a hand up. “This’ll be cake.”

“I’ll wait for you.” And he would. No matter how long it took. No matter if John never appeared, he would wait. But in his cloudy, confused emotional state, he knew he was selling John short. What with the chems and the inevitable threat of feral-madness, it was easy to forget just how capable John was. He was a different type of warrior. He didn’t stage grand campaigns that brought valor and conquest to any faction – John was a freedom fighter, using anything he could to win. He thrived on disorder and rule-bending. By adhering to regimented training and honorable conduct, the oncoming Brotherhood patrol could have a hard fight ahead of them. Yet, as exhausted as he felt, Danse couldn’t abide for any of those servicemen to die in their pursuit of him. “Please,” he begged of John. “Don’t kill any of them. They’re only following orders. None of this is their fault.”

“Dan…”

“Promise me.”

After a lengthy stare, John caved. “Okay.” He swung the pack of explosives onto his back. “You can cover yourself until you get to the dock, right? Just use my name – my old one. Ferryman’ll take you to the Isle. Stealth it to a hundred ‘til you get there.” He tore his gaze away. “We goin’?” he shouted to Deacon, who’d meandered off behind a partition.

“Just changing my duds. Right behind you.”

“Train’s leaving,” said Harkness, nudging Danse in the back. “Our borrowed time is almost out. Brotherhood’ll be done combing the ship any minute now.”

Everything was happening so fast. Danse brushed his sidearm to make sure it was still there and followed the officer out into the broken bow. A crack of overwhelming sensation struck him, and he called, “John?” Halting in his preparation, John spun, coat swirling as their eyes met. Danse’s holotags glowed blue from where they hung around the ghoul’s neck. Danse swallowed. He wanted to say something profound, something that could convey the amount of gratitude and affection he felt towards John, but the words stuck in his throat.

It didn’t matter. John understood. Their relationship hadn’t been based on dialogue. Giving a crocked smile, John nodded. “Yeah.”

Danse managed the wisp of a smile.

“Hey, are we doing this or not?” asked Deacon, concealing his new outfit beneath a fluffy bathrobe. “I just put a meatloaf in the oven. We’ve got forty-five minutes, tops.”

Though their parting was feasibly permanent, Danse and John forwent additional goodbyes, and soon Danse found himself heading outside with Harkness, the hatch clanging as they exited the bow. Thunderheads were mounting on the late afternoon horizon, heavy black bellies fit to burst with rain. “Let’s go,” Harkness urged, leading them back to the bank and off to the landing. Harkness picked his way along a partially submerged trail, watching where he stepped and scanning the surrounding banks. Danse mirrored his movements, scanning the water and terrain for signs of movement.

As Danse followed, he said, “I have one last question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why Cutler? How did he fit in to my creation? Do you even know?” he asked as they turned a corner and hugged a crumbling concrete retaining wall. Rivet City had fallen out of view, and storm clouds draped the Capitol in shadow.

Harkness shrugged, the plasma rifle on his back bouncing up and down. “A soldier was selected from a Brotherhood roster. Institute did what it does best – it took him.”

“But…he was killed at Green Valley, as part of a mutant hive.”

“No. You’re closer to an Institute replicant than a Railroad synth. His memories were taken and downloaded into your programming. In many ways, you _are_ Cutler – memories of your training, growing up, personality, that’s all him.”

Danse stopped walking. “I killed him. I remember clearly…” His brows furrowed, fighting the urge to remember specifics.

Harkness took several more steps before he noticed that Danse wasn’t following. “Who else can verify that, other than you?” he said, stopping to regard Danse.

“I…no one. I was the only survivor…or I…I assumed that I was and that…” Gunfire. His team screaming as they were overcome. The debilitating horror of seeing Cutler transformed. The taste of bile as he pulled the trigger…

None of it. None of it was real. All that existed was pre-programmed pain.

“A tragic backstory makes it less likely that we’ll want to recall details.” Harkness resumed walking the trail.

It took some effort to keep moving. Danse’s feet were leaden and each step sank into sludge. Water slapped at their calves and they would have to endure a short swim at some point. The two of them passed a bottle of Rad-X back and forth. “Downloading human memories,” Danse grumbled. “Warping them to suit a specific plan. That’s terrifying.”

“That’s immortality. Why do you think any of this technology exists?”

Danse had nothing to say to that. Given the finality of death or sacrificing morality to remain on this battered Earth, he’d surely choose death.

Crossing the Potomac went without incident, though when they surfaced the skies had begun to dump water in copious amounts. Danse gazed back across the river, water running down his face and pilling in his stubble. Several orange fireballs were bursting atop the bow. Was that Deacon’s work, or John’s? Danse’s heart sank. John and Deacon were currently hard at work, buying him time, while he ran like a coward. Though he knew it would have been cumbersome and quite impractical to bring, Danse wished he had been able to retrieve a suit of armor. He felt naked and exposed without it. With it, he could have worn his disgust at himself on his face without anyone to witness it. 

A small riverboat sat waiting at the dock, rainwater pouring off its canopy as white smoke chugged out of the stack. They trudged up to the landing, and Danse came clean, trusting that if anyone could relate, it would be Harkness. “I have memories that don’t make sense. Like I was –”

“A different person?” offered Harkness. He sighed and shook water from his hair. “Look, the memories you have of being in Rivet City – don’t dig too deep. Living with another set of memories…I don’t recommend it. Synths aren’t supposed to remember being programmed, being wiped, or whatever our old lives were. When it happens on rare occasion, it can cause a disassociation with reality. I…well, I juggle that every day. Both sets of my memories are pretty vivid.”

“How do you cope?”

“They way we all do, friend. One cautious step at a time.” The officer paused. “This is as far as I go. I can’t risk being recognized.” He extended one hand and Danse gave it a firm shake. “Good luck out there. Stay safe.” He turned around and headed back to deal with whatever madness had been unleashed on his city.

Danse took a breath and approached the ferryman, who stood under the awning smoking a cigar. “John McDonough sent me,” Danse stated. “I need a ride.”


	15. Loose Ends

JOHN

Rivet City, VA

January 1st, 2288

“Seriously,” Deacon said as he emptied a gasoline canister into the Anacostia River. “What do you see in that guy?”

From an open bulkhead, and laden down with clanking bottles and the very tangible presence of grenades, John threw him an irritated look. “He knows when to shut up.”

“Touché.” Deacon passed the last of the drained canisters to John, who stashed them inside the bow. It wouldn’t do to leave them floating in the river. As it were, they already relied on the cloud cover and threat of rain helped to mask evidence of the oil slick. Deacon wore hair again, and as he mussed it he wiggled uncomfortably in the skin-tight orange uniform of a Brotherhood initiate. “Dancock it is, then. Or maybe, Hanse? The tabloids’ll need a juicy nickname. This is right up Piper’s alley – _Star-crossed Adversaries Find Love at Last._ She’ll have to credit me for the title, though.”

“Don’t be a fucker,” John snarled, stepping out of the bow and slamming the hatch closed with a _gong_. As the mayor of an average-sized settlement, John encountered a certain amount of people engrossed with his personal life yet had managed to be very careful about divulging his history with Danse, not caving to Piper or Nick, heedless of their prying. That information was certainly not going to be won by Deacon. “Wouldn’t your sorry ass, of all people, value discretion?”

“Eh. True. But my ass also values sick burns and shade.” Deacon squirmed in his suit, testing the seams. “Gimme your knife.” After a dubious glare, John handed it over. Pulling the fabric tight with one hand, Deacon worked the sharp tip across various seams in the uniform, slashing as he talked. “Look, the two of you – you’re not snowflakes, you’re the same. You don’t see gray, only black and white, good and evil, or right and wrong. This is causing you more grief than necessary. Just get over it and make out already. The fans expect it.”

As Deacon distressed the uniform, John scanned the extended portcullis to Rivet City, seeing armored soldiers moving to and fro, looking like tiny robotic toys from where he and Deacon hunkered by the bow. Off in the distance, the Memorial loomed, a monument dedicated to Jefferson, a man who had been an asshole but a patriot, with respectable trading policies. Fitting – John could relate. Thunderclouds clogged the sky, making it seem as if night had fallen too early. Mindful of the combustibles he carried, John placed careful footsteps along the floating grates serving as platforms that hugged the side of the bow, Deacon trailing behind. “Rain’s coming in. Somethin’ poetic about fire and water. You set?”

Deacon’s uniform was in sad shape, torn and shredded in places, with several lengthy slashes running in parallel lines, tell-tale indications of a feral attack. He flipped the knife handle to John, who slid it home in its sheath. “Ready to commence. Gonna have to bow out at the end and move Pinkerton. Location’ll be compromised. You should feel bad. If there’s anything old men like, its being set in their ways.” Water lapped at their heels as Deacon pondered, “I don’t know who’s the worse influence, me or you.”   

John tilted his head, gazing up the broken section of the carrier. “Definitely you, Brother. I own my lies,” he said, reaching up to test the strength of the rust-ridden metal staircase adhered to the side of the ship. On the main section, stairways crisscrossed up and down, giving access to each level. Here on the narrow bow, the steps went straight up, the path to the deck was through a series of ladders, each about fifteen-feet high, encased in metal bracing. A short break occurred at each level, where one ladder would end before another began. Up, up, up it went, the deck hidden at the top. When – if – he made it to the top, there’d only be one way down. And Danse wouldn’t like it. But Danse had a thick head and a soft heart where the Brotherhood was concerned.  

“Do you?” Deacon countered, spurring John to drop his gaze and squint at the spy. “My dishonesty comes with the job. I am a master of shadows. And misdirection. I’m like a magician that way. But you? Your disguise is way better than mine. Your costume is seamless. No telling where the real you actually begins.”

“I ain’t easy swayed by your mindfuckery,” John huffed. Such was Deacon’s primary weapon – unsettling others with his ‘observations’. “Dig all you want. My walls are made outta steel.”

“Hmm. Interesting choice of words.”

Successfully annoyed, John chewed at the inside of his cheek and counted foes by the entryway. Six Brotherhood soldiers milled, four in armor, two without. “How you wanna go about this?”

“Me? I was never here. You’re the mad ghoul that intercepted their target. So, uh, I’d start running if I were you.” Deacon began a slow amble backward, his posture wilting in his orange suit, grabbing at his ribs. “No, seriously. Start climbing.” John scrambled up to the second level and crouched close to the ledge as Deacon shambled a wobbly path along the floating grates. In his ripped uniform and disheveled wig, he looked quite the sight. “Help!” he called out, voice shrill and panicked. A few helmets rotated in his direction. In his standard over-dramatic manner, Deacon kept yelling, pointing in John’s direction as he stumbled. “Help! Oh, dear God in Heaven! Did you see that? Some crazy-looking ghoul just fought the M7 unit! They’re chasing each other up the bow! I tried to catch it, but it’s feral, I tell ya!”

This was a role that John could play. He leaned over the side of the ship and gave his best _watch-out-I’m-feral_ growl to the now gawking soldiers. Red beams of laser fire erupted, and he whipped his head back to avoid them. Crouched behind siding, a wild grin found its way to his face. John shoved his hand into his breast pocket and drew out a complicated-looking inhaler. He took two hits of X-Cell, one after the other. His heart rate soared, his system flooding with pure adrenaline. If he were to be shot, he would barely feel it. Good – that made this insanity seem far less impossible.

“A ghoul!” a tinny-sounding voice shouted from within a helmet. “Get the bolts,” it commanded.

He stole an instant to light a cigarette and made sure to clench it tight between his withered lips. He bolted up the next ladder as the clanking of armor and heavy footsteps splashing through river water drew nearer. The Brotherhood troupe was crossing the platforms to the bow. He jammed one hand into his pack, fishing for armament as Deacon spouted to the soldiers below, “Oh, thank goodness. There! They went up there!”

A deceptively light grenade filled John’s palm and he forced his cloudy brain to focus. Jerking the pin out, John lobbed the grenade over the side of the bow. Water flumed upwards as it detonated in the river, making his ears ring. The sounds of a churning minigun and laser fire crashed in a cacophony of sound against the hull, peppering his general vicinity as he stooped below waist-high siding. He waited for the lull of reloading before dashing up another ladder to the next level.

A low roar whooshed through the air below and John spared a hasty glance down. Orange fingers of flame branched through the water as the oil caught fire, engulfing the trail of floating platforms and blocking additional support from arriving. Nice to know that Deacon had stuck to the plan, setting the gasoline aflame at the right moment. The spy added even to the commotion, flailing about in _surprise_ and knocking one of uniformed soldiers into the water. An armored solider – the one with the minigun – shrank back, whipping the weapon away from the flames before the plethora of stored ammo could ignite. Trapped on the opposite side of the blaze, its modulated voice ordered, “Push on! Lose the asset now and it’s your asses that’ll be chewed!”

_Motivating_ , thought John just as the disintegrating ladder was wrenched to one side, nearing making him lose his grip and drop his cigarette. The bottles in his pack clanked together, the liquid inside sloshing, and his breath caught. One of the armored soldiers had grasped the tail-end of John’s ladder in broad metal hands and was attempting to rip it down. John produced one of the bottles from his pack and inhaled deeply on his smoke, touching the cherry-red tip to a blob of cloth protruding from the bottle. The cloth caught, and he let the Molotov drop straight down to break against the soldier’s visor. In shock, flame bursting all around its helmet, the solider let go and flung itself away, falling all the way down the side and into the river, where it would have a long, slow underwater march to the riverbank.

John scampered to the top of the ladder and began scaling the next. Again, the ladder rattled, a second armored unit taking inspiration from the last one. He sent another Molotov to crash onto its helmet, but this one wasn’t so easily spooked. Feet planted on the deck below, it attempted to pry the ladder away from the bow, the metal protesting with a rusty wail. John hung on for dear life. This was no longer fun schadenfreude at the Brotherhood’s expense but a very real threat cutting deep into his chem-haze to send tendrils of electric fear charging through his muscles. John cursed and tried a grenade, holding it in his hand longer than he felt comfortable before dropping it. The resulting explosion not only blasted the armored unit in the water but flattened John against the bow, his head ducked tight into his collar as the barely-attached ladder danced.

Though the ladder was damaged, John was light enough to scamper to the next deck. He flopped down, taking to moment to spit out his crushed cigarette and wait for his hearing to return. Brief flashes of white-hot lighting revealed the smoke rising from his coat. If not for Nate’s insistence on adding ballistic weave into John’s frock coat, the ghoul might have blown to pieces. The sky opened and rain began to fall, soaking his outfit and calming the smoldering fabric.

Danse had to have made it to the landing by now. What remained was to keep the Brotherhood patrol occupied until the ferry left the dock. Twenty minutes, maybe? Fifteen? Deacon would be long gone by now, attending to Railroad affairs. John was on his own.

A hatch on the same level burst open with a bang and the second uniformed solider climbed out, laser pistol drawn. Thankful for the push of the X-Cell, John jolted into action, sprinting for the next ladder. As he climbed, the knight in orange scrambled up after him, shooting blind as he maneuvered upward, red beams of light spouting off at random angles. The knight was heavy, and the ladder shuddered as they both scurried up it. “Intercept at the flight deck!” the knight below bellowed.

“Roger, Knight Rhys,” a modulated voice answered. “Heading to the flight deck.” An armored solider assisted by a jet pack shot past, avoiding the rickety ladder all together, rising deck by deck in short bursts of acceleration, taking pauses to land with heavy, steel-rending thumps now and again before taking off again.

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._ The metal supports looped around the ladder like a cage and there was nowhere to go but up. John would have to deal with Jetpack Guy and the bastard behind him once he got to the top. Kicking off the final rung, John ran flat out, desperately searching for any type of cover. The end of the flight deck was wide open and vacant. No planes, no supply trolleys, just the blunt end of the air craft carrier before the deck ended with a long drop into the river.  

Jetpack Guy dropped into John’s path, cutting him off and causing the deck to vibrate as the full weight of his armor came crashing down. John skittered to a stop, boots sliding on the water-slick deck, rain cascading down the folds of his tricorn. Jetpack Guy stared down the sights of an impressive metal crossbow and, before John could move, fired it into John’s side. The weave helped, slowing the bolt, and increased agility of the X-Cell gave John just enough time to turn so that the point skimmed his ribs as it soared past, adding yet another hole to the old coat.

John whipped back, high and vicious. Reality slowed as his attention sharpened to a fine tip. A reflection bounced off Jetpack Guy’s visor – a feral ghoul with glowing gold eyes. Whirling around, John’s dark eyes drank in the deck. Nothing. He looked back. That same feral stared at him, only this time, he noticed that it wore a wide tricorn hat. As Jetpack Guy nocked another bolt, John squeezed his eyes shut and drew several panicky breaths, seeking to ground himself in his body, in this dangerous now. When he opened his eyes again, the reflection was normal – charcoal eyes, charcoal hat, charcoal sky, with rivulets of rain pouring over the helmet.

Shrugging the pack off, John fumbled to flick his lighter open. A tiny ball of flame fought the rain and won, flickering as he dropped the lighter into the open pack. With chem-boosted strength, he flung the full pack at Jetpack Guy and dove for the ground. He saw the crossbow drop to the deck right before a tumult of light and sound erupted, the entire contents of the combustible pack igniting with a boom hat left the deck quaking. The force of the blast knocked John into a disorienting sideways roll as bits of metal joined the rain pelting him. When John rose to shaky feet amidst fluttering embers it occurred to him that this stunt might have been overkill. Jetpack Guy was gone, likely blown over the side of the ship, maybe still alive in a busted suit, but probably not.

A cold, metal click barely registered over the volley of fat, chilly raindrops; a bolt fitting into place. “The freak in the costume. I killed you already.” John turned to face the knight in the orange uniform and felt a dizzying sense of déjà vu. That voice. The crossbow. The same bolt that he’d seen after waking up fevered and delirious in Goodneighbor. This burly solider resembled Finn far too closely for comfort and had to be harboring one hell of a grudge to have chased them all the way from the Commonwealth. What had the other soldier called him? Rhys? That was a dumb name.

John shook his head, droplets flying from the crests of his hat. “Didn’t take,” he huffed, X-Cell still raged in his body, clogging his speech. “Won’t find him.” He slid a thumb along the holotag chain and let the tags dangle in full view, their phosphorescent blue glow soft but obvious. “Gone.”

The knight cursed. “A diversion.” Rhys’ aim dropped from John’s head to his legs, not intending for an immediate death. John knew his type. Rhys clearly wasn’t going to leave any loose ends in wrapping up his mission to find Danse, and if that included torturing John to death to get what he wanted, he gladly would. “Why?” Rhys spat, drawing nearer, his boots built for better traction in the rain than John’s ancient pair. “Why would you help it?”

John smirked, circling to one side, hands drifting to his pockets. “One freak to another.”

Rhys mirrored him, keeping his sights trained. “You know where that atrocity is. And you’re going to tell me.”

In a flash of chem-boosted speed, John flung handfuls of glass shards at Rhys’ eyes. The knight howled and reeled, eyes clamping shut. John bowled into him, grappling to pry the crossbow out of his hands. Bellowing, the knight threw his stocky body into John, knocking him onto his back. John struck out with both legs, boots catching Rhys in the knees, forcing him to stumble. The crossbow clattered to the deck once more. John rolled, getting to his feet as his coat was grabbed from behind. The knight swung him wide and far. His boots slid over the wet runway, sending him careening towards the edge of the ship. He met open air. Thankful for enhanced reflexes, John grabbed at the lip of the bow with both hands, swinging perilously, his legs kicking, trying to find purchase. John looked down, water running down the brim of his hat. The surface of the water was easily one hundred feet down. Hitting the river from that height would be akin to meeting concrete.  As he struggled, he let loose a strained yell, wrestling panic. Despite the chems, he wasn’t strong enough to hang on for long.

The knight encroached as John fought to pull himself up, his face contorted in rage, bloody trickles melding with rainwater over his stubbly jaw. He seized John by the wrists, pulling him away from the ship. John twisted and dangled, supported entirely by the grip of this angry knight. “Where is it hiding?” he shrieked down at John. “I know you’ve been with it since Bravo! Tell me!” The knight lugged John up high enough for him to get his knees onto the deck. Switching to grab him by the lapels, Rhys shook him. “Where is it? What have you done with it?”

The freezing rain switched to hail, battering them both. Balls of ice clattered onto the deck, rolling down the runway. Still clutching at John’s coat, Rhys tipped him far enough back that he lost his center of gravity and pinwheeled, fighting for balance. He grabbed at the knight’s arm with one hand, his other spinning wide in mid-air. “You’d fight and you’d die for that thing?” Rhys roared, pushing his face close to John’s. “It isn’t real! It doesn’t have a soul! It doesn’t care about you!”

John looked Rhys dead in the eyes, forcing his full attention, slipping his free hand behind his back. Like a snake striking, the ghoul sank his knife into Rhys’ throat, causing the knight to jerk backwards, pulling John away from the edge. John took the opportunity to find his feet and propel himself into Rhys. Despite the knife in his neck and the spray of blood coating his uniform, Rhys rolled, trying to force John away. All that managed was for them to switch places, and John knotted a hand in the fabric of Rhys’ uniform, forcing him into the same position he’d just been in, at someone’s mercy, on his knees with nothing but sky and a long drop at his back.  “You don’t know him,” John snarled as Rhys choked on steel and frothing blood. “Just like you don’t know shit about me.”

He drew his knife back and shoved the knight from the deck. Thunder clashed, obscuring the sound of an impact where flesh met the water’s surface. John leaned over the edge. An orange suit bobbed in the Anacostia River, facedown. John exhaled hard, the storm battering his back. Wary, he let his eyes wander the deck. No armor, no orange, nothing. It was over. His body hummed, coming down from the X-Cell. Gradually, his heartbeat sank back into a regular rhythm and the tense muscles in his shoulders relaxed.

Wobbling to his feet, he took staggering steps to wear the crossbow had fallen. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. If this was the next step in Brotherhood genocide, he owed to it to ghouls everywhere to have the thing taken apart and studied. Shivering against the winter storm, he trudged to a hatch and spun the dial. He was going to take the easy way down and get the hell out of Rivet City before word traveled that a ghoul had set about ruining Brotherhood plans. Seeing the entirety of the Citadel up in arms against him was an experience he could go without.

Besides, it was time to go home.    


	16. Picture It

JOHN

Douglas Falls, Canadian Province East

August 2nd, 2278

A fine mist kissed the surface of the sparkling lake below. The roar of rushing water, akin to the beating of vertibird propellers, pounded at John’s eardrums. He pressed his naked back against warm, rough rock, angular boulders slightly slick beneath his bare feet. With a sharp intake of breath, he ran, leaping into the air. His arms flew wide as he fell, plummeting straight down. Cool water shocked his skin as he landed, bubbles erupting all around him. He suffered a moment of swirling disorientation before twisting towards fractured sunlight and breaking the surface. The edges of his flag threatened to tangle in his arms as he kept himself buoyant. His water-logged pants, even with the cuffs rolled up as far as they could go, hindered his movement, adding weight as he kicked. He ran a hand over his face, wiping eyes clear and spat a flume of water from his mouth. “See? No big,” he shouted back up the cliff side.

Tentative, Danse peered over the edge and down into the lake. His thighs looked massive under a pair of white boxers. “Are you alright?” he called down.

“Course I am.” Clearly, Danse hadn’t believed him, as his tense body posture remained locked. “You’re up!” Sweeping water forward, John backed up, making room. Danse could be dense at times, but as he was bold as was handsome and loyal. Proving as much, Danse dove headfirst, arms pointing in perfect form, slicing through the water’s surface in a much cleaner landing than John’s had been. _Show off_ , he grinned.

Sunlight sparkled on the surface as Danse emerged, turning the clear water choppy, shaking water from his dark, thick, coarse hair. John’s own was light and fine, but plentiful, and he could tease it into a decent mane if he wanted to, though now it was a wet, tangled mess hanging in his eyes. Danse’s ever-present stubble defined his strong jaw while John couldn’t grow a beard if he tried; the best he could manage left his face looking more dirty than rugged, so he kept it clean. Stroking towards him, Danse’s eyes looked copper in the sunlight. His nose had been broken since the last time John had seen him and it hadn’t set quite straight. This was nothing new – Danse was always nursing some new injury or scar. Danse caught him around the middle and they dissolved into playful attempts at throwing the other over the lake as far as they could, though John’s efforts were feeble in comparison. They yelled and laughed, the sounds amplified by the rock walls surrounding them.

It was late summer, and the bright sun and clean glacial water felt fantastic. Apparently, no one had thought much about nuking Canada. Tall trees that John couldn’t identify – bushy at the bottom and narrow at the top – hugged the waster’s edge, a wall of vegetation cutting the lake and their nearby campsite off from the outside world. Sharp-peaked mountaintops poked above the tree line, pockets of white snow clinging to crevices and streaking through the range. A host a new produce was readily available, roots, grains, and small fruits the color of tarberries, along with a sticky type of sap that was the most saccharine thing John had ever tasted. It was tempting to never go back. But Danse wouldn’t stay, the siren song of the Brotherhood too strong to deny.

Although John had brought a supply of chems with him, he remained sober. For once, he was able to pull himself together, and Danse witnessing him as a jittery mess was the last thing he wanted. The timbre of Danse’s voice was instantly calming, chasing away the urge to self-medicate. Sometimes, John brought books to their rendezvous and made Danse read aloud from them, just to hear him talk. He smiled at John as if he were important and that much meant everything to an addict trying to find his place. The stagnant reality of John’s life in Diamond City was punctuated only by his trips to Goodneighbor or the rare journey to meet Danse at some far-off location. The distance and infrequency of their visits was hard – he had grown to miss the big lug.

The one-sidedness of their communication method was difficult to accept, leaving John to wait for correspondence while Danse was off bringing death and destruction to those who fought back against Brotherhood rule. He hated knowing that was what he did, but the person who came to see him had remained true to their agreement and never mentioned it. That it didn’t impact either of them was an easy enough lie for John to tell himself. It also seemed as if Danse had forgiven him for bringing Calmex into his life. Although some nights he fought it, the early morning hours often found Danse with syringe in hand, handling the injections himself as John had taught him. Their nights together were exponentially more peaceful now, with Danse sleeping harder and longer, with John in his arms. They existed in a vacuum, just the two of them, secluded, private, their relationship moving along effortlessly.

As the sun set, they walked side by side around the lake, Danse’s arm draped over John’s shoulder, their fingers loosely intertwined. Each had an arm around the other’s waist. John was talking about the details of some visit to Charleston he had taken years ago, squeezing Danse’s fingers and studying his winsome face while they walked. Vigilant Danse had his eyes glued ahead, guiding where they stepped. “Rock,” Danse remarked, interrupting John’s story and pulling him around the obstacle.

It was in that very small moment that John realized he loved Danse. Stunned, he stumbled. Danse’s swift reflexes kept him from falling on his face. “Are you alright?” Danse asked, pulling him up with a strong and steady hand, warm where he grasped John’s arm.

“I, uh, yeah,” John sputtered, in no way prepared to blurt out his thoughts. Instead, he let them stew, musing a bit, enjoying the pleasant security of Danse’s presence. To call Danse a friend seemed like an inconsequential label. John hadn’t had someone this steady since Stacia on Liberty Isle, but they had been little more than children letting newfound hormones dictate their actions. Despite being a few years his junior, Danse was a fully-functional adult, serious and hyper-focused on any task he accepted.  His affections were awkward but authentic, with a nervous undertone that he couldn’t seem to shake. He was both literal and honest to a fault, traits which John found adorable and endearing **.**

Long after night had fallen the air remained balmy, clear of smog and rads, smelling of greenery and simpler times. The memory of fucking Danse in not only open air, but broad daylight as well, had been well worth the wait and would remain with John forever. Seated on plastic patio chairs, they ate a modest dinner barefoot around a simple cooking station. Initially, Danse hadn’t been in favor of a fire out in the open, but after two days without an incident, of nothing happening and no one coming across them, he had caved, loosening his stanch demeanor and allowing for a bit of reckless barbecue before they parted tomorrow, going back to their normal, polarized lives.

“May I ask you a question?” Danse asked, the firelight giving his skin a coral glow. He shoved another bite into his mouth, as if worried that John would deny him.

“Apart from the one you just asked? Sure,” John mumbled around a mouthful of hoser root.

Danse, who never spoke with his mouth full, swallowed his charred radrabbit and even took a sip of his Nuka before speaking. “The flag. Why do you keep it with you?”

Almost choking on his food, John coughed and glanced down to stare at the white and red stripes dangling by his calf. He favored the flag, cleaned and mended it when he had to, always kept it within reach, rubbed it for comfort, but hadn’t been aware that Danse had noticed. Unprepared for this and well aware of Danse’s opinions, John hesitated to answer. But he wanted Danse to know, wanted to share his experiences. He swallowed. “Look,” he began in a slow and cautious manner. “If I explain this, you need to promise not to freak out, okay?”

Danse’s brows met as horizontal lines stacked on his forehead. “I’ll certainly try.”

John put his mealtime items aside took Danse’s hands, willing for empathy to flow through his skin. “It’s important to me, ‘cause it used to be important to someone else.” John heaved a breath, dropping his gaze. Danse’s calloused hands were large in his. “For a hell of a long time, I wandered the Wastes, seein’ sights, studying history and law and all that heavy stuff that most folks can’t even wrap their heads around. But I didn’t go alone. I brought someone with me. Didn’t need a merc, or a killer, I just needed a guard. So, I bought one.” John halted in his story. Garrett’s torn and half-rotted face filled his memories. “We travelled for years, even after I terminated his contract. We stayed in vaults and libraries, old campuses – any place I could do my writing. The flag was his,” John finally admitted. “It was his final reward after centuries of service.”

An inkling must have tickled Danse, for his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Centuries? You…you traveled with a ghoul?” He tugged his hands out of John’s, disgust clear on his face. The fire crackled and popped, orange embers set loose to float through the air as Danse sank back in his seat, hands clasped between his knees.

John decided to exclude mentioning West, his other companion. Adding that additional piece of information could send Danse over the edge, and he certainly understood which battles to fight and which to walk away from. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “What am I gonna say – that I’m sorry he kept me alive? Before the war, he was a solider, same as you.” Danse’s cheek twitched. “Yes – just like you,” John hammered home. “Both lifetime soldiers. Only Garrett’s term of service got extended by a couple’a centuries. That wasn’t his fault. He fought from Anchorage to D.C. and lived through all of it. Ghoul or not, the two of you had a lot in common – blind faith in your government, belief in your cause, and loyal beyond all logic.” John shrugged, his shoulders nearly touching his ears. “So his skin rotted – and? Whenever I see you, you’ve been busted up on the job. If you were in the field and fell into some toxic, rad-laced pit, comin’ out all burned and pukin’ your guts out, am I supposed to blame you for it? You wouldn’t blame one of your Brothers, would you? But I guess that’s different.” John’s dig was unwarranted, and he instantly regretted it. Danse looked away from him, watching the swirls of flame instead as John cursed his big, fat mouth.

Danse cleared his throat, a gruff expression clouding his face. “Was this the _friend_ you’d mentioned before? The one you’d had feelings for?”

“I…yes.”

“Did you…did you have relations with this ghoul?” Danse stammered, struggling to spit the words out. He turned a little green even saying it.

“No. Not him. But...others. Other ghouls.” He hadn’t been stupid about it, had always used rad meds and, besides, ghoul bodies didn’t house standard venereal diseases and they were a safer lay than other random Wastelanders. And who would they be if they started lying to each other? Danse was frozen, staring unblinking at the fire. The crackle of embers was the only sound in their small clearing for some time. “Dan…please. Say something.” His continuous silence made John start to sweat, and he squirmed in his seat, dropping his crossed arms. “Dan, I had to meet him to meet you,” he blurted in a rush of desperation. “You get that? He had to exist for you and me to happen. He’s why I was in Alexandria.”

Danse raised his eyes, still looking unhappy. “What happened to him?” he asked, voice flat.

“He…I…” John sucked air and held it as pain flared in his chest. “He went feral. Some monster took over his body, and he wasn’t the guy I knew anymore. He was just…gone. Had to put him down.” Danse’s face slacked, and he reached to squeeze John’s arm. John forced a smile that immediately died. “Kind of a shitty thing to do, right? I coulda left him. He wasn’t gonna be able to hurt anybody. But leaving him like that…that wasn’t who I was.” His breaths shuddered in and out, wrestling emotions he thought had vanished. “I know you’ve got this thing in your head where all ghouls get what’s coming to them, but Garrett…he was a hero right up until the end. He can’t bear his flag anymore. But I can. It’s me saying, _I’m sorry I couldn’t save you_. I hang onto it because it was his. And I’ll die before someone takes it from me.”

Danse hauled him out of his seat by the arm and, as John stood, wrapped his arms around his waist, hugging him with his head against John’s stomach. Shocked, John didn’t move. “Wait – what just happened?” he asked, utterly baffled.

When he pulled away, Danse seemed as if he were the one fighting tears. “On occasion, this world is a terrible place,” he stated, staring up, his hands upon John’s narrow hips. “Outliving someone you – someone you care about, creates a burden at times too heavy to endure. I don’t wish that on anyone. I…understand that you had a full life before I came into it. I won’t judge you. That isn’t my place.” Hands left John’s hips and Danse reclined in his chair, expression blank as if trolling the past.      

“I mean, hell…can you picture it – me as some grizzled Wasteland survivor, all tattered and squirrely?” John joked, still standing before him. “That’s what I’d have been reduced to if I hadn’t been able to purchase a friend to fight for me. Might’a even gotten conscripted at some point if I’d needed to keep my guts on the inside, either by your buddies in the black armor or by the Enclave.”

“Stop it.” Danse grimaced, looking troubled as he raked John’s face with sharp eyes. “I have zero desire to imagine a scenario where I meet you in combat. The idea of it sickens me. Never speak of it again.”

A corner of John’s mouth turned up in a smile and he gave a soft snort. “Wow. What do you really think? Don’t hold back.”

“I…I care about your well-being,” Danse confessed, sentiment making his eyes hazy. “It’s important that you stay safe.”

“You don’t think I can’t manage that?” John asked, bending to grab the arms of Danse’s chair.

“By your own admittance, no.”

“Hmm.” John hovered, his mouth close to Danse’s. “Guess there’s only so much I’m good for.” His teeth grazed Danse’s neck, trailing over beard-bristle. The stars were so goddammed bright out here. It would be a shame not to bookend their evening with more deviant behavior.

Danse took him by the shoulders and held him straight out. “You’re smart and cunning – two traits that are equally rare and valuable. You sell yourself far too short. There are many things that you excel at, John McDonough.”

With a wiggle, John slid out of his grasp and lowered himself to his knees. “Yeah, I know.” He lifted Danse’s shirt and kissed his way up, letting hot breath linger over Danse’s navel. “This just happens to be one of them.” His mouth traveled downwards.

Danse’s hands knotted in his hair. “We…we haven’t finished our meal,” he gasped in meek protest, squirming as John hooked fingers into his waistband and tugged.

“Mmm,” John purred, lips brushing flesh. “I’d rather have you.”


	17. As You Were

DANSE

Liberty Isle, NY

January 5th, 2288

Sunset painted the sky over the Upper New York Bay magenta, a few puffy clouds sporting vibrantly pink underbellies. A pair of cawing radgulls flapped towards the horizon. The salt air smelled fresh and briny, though it made Danse’s skin feel slightly tacky. He craned his neck, taking in the spectacle. The Statue of Liberty towered above him, her shadow cloaking Danse where he stood surrounded by the shells of old buildings, a tangle of overgrowth coming up to his thighs. He’d seen images of her before, paintings on old army recruitment posters or postcards, appearing majestic and inspiring. This version had fallen on hard times. Rust stains dripped down the statue like old blood. The torch and most of the extended arm was gone, having corroded and fallen into the ocean. Her skin was pockmarked, either from blown rivets or scars from prior battles staged on the small island. The crown was depressing to see, more like a wreath of gnarled thorns than a circlet of grand spires. A few laundry lines were strung between gaps in her dermis, sheets and underthings flapping in the sea breeze.

Beneath the crumbling stature, Ford Wood stood proud, the stone base with its eleven-point star housing the occupants of the Isle. An artillery gun was mounted to the end of each point, its barrel facing off the open ocean, ready to sink any threat that materialized. The former Sculpture Garden – as the sign read – housed a marketplace tended to by robot vendors in need of repairs that whirred and threw sparks on occasion. An enormous flagpole towered over the island, bereft of Old Glory. It was a quiet settlement, protected by the guns, the ocean, and tall metal walls made from the hulls of old ships that encircled the entire landmass. The only entrance in or out consisted of a heavily fortified ferry dock, a sentry bot stationed at the hydraulic gate that led to a boathouse. Danse was impressed. The defenses of Liberty Isle were ingenious, utilizing the coastal location and automatons to grant maximum protection without needed to expend manpower or resources.

This was John’s home, his birthplace. Danse would like to have met John’s parents, as he spoke highly of them, but they had been dead for decades. Once he’d given the sentry bot John’s name, he’d been easily admitted entrance to the secluded island. He’d seen very few people, just a handful of elderly faces peering out of Ford Wood before disappearing again, fleeting glimpses of movement from within the statue itself. The people kept to themselves and, guessing that Danse was of little interest, ignored him. On occasion, John had said that those who lived on high found it easy to sneer at those in the dirt below. Danse’s guess was that way of thinking must have led to the island’s downfall, isolating itself from other would-be settlers and paying the price for exclusivity with a significant drop in reproduction. From what he recalled, the younger inhabitants – John included – had left, never to return. It would only be a matter of time before the entire island was desolate. Would this be his home now? Would that be his fate – to outlive the other residents, waiting for his body to degrade, not unlike Nick Valentine? The notion of that useless future made him shudder in revulsion.

A tired sun sank over the skyline, dipping low behind the island’s barricades. In the waning twilight, Danse heard the faint beat of propellers. He backed against the remnants of the gift shop where he had taken up refuge and scanned the airspace. The vertibird flew overheard, its shadow floating over the island, likely Brotherhood a patrol on their way into New New York to scavenge for forgotten bits of technology. As it disappeared, Danse let out a breath he didn’t remember holding. How many on board dreamt of being the one to capture him, or to put a bullet in his head? All of them, no doubt. What a glorious honor that would be for the solider that managed it.

Days crept by waiting for John’s arrival, and Danse wandered a grid of gift shops and low, white buildings fallen into recent disrepair. The isle’s crops had turned brown, withering on the vine and echoing the deterioration of the location. He built himself a fortified position in the information center, dragging desks and shelves together to form a barricade. His gun was loaded, a single spare box of ammo stashed behind his blockade in case the Institute procured his location. His newest habit had become pacing. Pace, pace, edge past his rampart, look out the open door, turn, walk back, pace, pace, turn, repeat. Supplies bartered off the ferryman, billed to John’s account, dwindled as the time passed. _One more day_ , Danse told himself as night fell, long shadows stretching to climb the walls. If John didn’t arrive by then…

He couldn’t finish that thought.

Pace, pace, turn.

The crackle of footsteps on undergrowth made Danse freeze. He eased his gun from its place at his hip. 

“Hey, you. Come here often?” grated a gruff voice.

Danse’s heart wedged itself in his mouth as John stepped out of the darkness and into the bleak lighting of the information center’s entry, a satisfied smirk on his face. How dramatic, and very like John, to need to make an entrance. Danse snorted his disgust through his nose even as relief flooded into him, calming his fluttering heart. He clicked the safety back on and put the gun away.

“Well, trust you to pick the best digs in the place,” John said mockingly, propping one elbow casually against the doorway, the tails of his flag swinging above crossed shins. A single nuclear-charged halogen bulb shone at the entrance, barely illuminating the room. “Ya know, place’d be more secure if you blocked the door.”

“I was waiting for you. Did you…were there any casualties?”

John’s black eyes were hard to read. “No. We’re good. Everybody made it out.”

A weight lifted off Danse’s shoulders, comforted by the fact that his escape had caused no lasting damage to Brotherhood forces.

That arrogant grin flickered, and John dropped his arm from the doorway. He was equipped again, both with a plasma pistol in decent condition and a backup pipe rifle. “Still, you’re not that stupid. Not unless you’re trying to get caught.” He ducked inside, taking a few steps closer with narrowed eyes. “You wouldn’t do that, right? Not after all you’ve done to find answers.”

“ _Answers_ ,” Danse repeated harshly. Meeting the other synth, having Cutler taken away…he wished that he hadn’t even bothered going back to Rivet City. “Is that what I found? All that I appeared to have uncovered was the knowledge of how twisted the Institute actually is. It had been my hope that a Daniel Danse had existed, that he had been a soldier, that he had been a real person, and that the body that I’m in was only a recent copy of someone that had earned the honors given to him.” He was filled with turbulent self-loathing. “Instead, I’m just an experiment that has failed to serve its purpose. I’m nothing.” He was a traitor now and was to spend the rest of his life in hiding. Danse stared and shook his head, muddled guilt and harsh doubt bubbling up inside of him. John lingered just out of reach. “Why help me? Why come to Bravo to reclaim me at all? After the way I’ve treated you…I certainly didn’t deserve your help.”

“I couldn’t _not_ help,” John shrugged, that single light bulb highlighting one side of his worn face. “All I do is try and suck less than everybody else, and if I’ve got the ability to make a difference, then you better believe that I’m gonna do just that.” Sighing, he folded his arms, hunching in the doorway. “Hell, Dan – you’ve always sucked at accepting help. But I’m never just gonna leave you to face whatever’s coming alone.” His worn mouth turned up in a gentle smile. “I’d like to think that you’d do the same for me. But I ain’t as dumb as I might look. I know that part’s done.” That smile wavered meekly. “I never wanted to lose you. Did everything I could to keep that from happening.”

“I know,” Danse said, quietly. In their past, John had been honest, stating his intentions as clearly as he could while Danse had dodged and parried, keeping him at a distance. John’s loyalty to him was as ever unbending as the vow that Danse had made to the Brotherhood.

“But it’s never gonna be enough, is it? I finally got what I’ve always wanted – you’re free. Brotherhood would never take you back, even if you wanted.” Danse felt bitter about hearing John say that, despite it being true. “And now look at me,” John continued, shaking his head as he looked down at himself. “So ugly that I can’t get anyone to look at me two nights in a row ‘less I pay them. I didn’t want this life, but it’s what I’ve got. And now, you’re back in it.” A deep sigh made John’s narrow shoulders sag. “I know you hate yourself for existing – I get it, believe me.” Sentiment clogged John’s throaty voice. It rose in pitch and broke as he said, “But, you’re no machine, Dan. You ain’t like Codsworth, not like Nick, hell, you’re not even like Curie. You’re like nobody that I’ve ever known. And I didn’t come all this way just to watch you give up.” The tears began to fall.

Watching John cry was terrifying. His tears flowed in glowing green drops, luminescent against the tanned skin of his face, made to seem even brighter in the dark, a further reminder of how far removed he was from the person that he had once been. Danse had no idea if this was a normal characteristic for ghouls, but it certainly was upsetting to witness. Danse’s horror extended to himself as well. There existed a series of words or phrases that could incite him to do anything. They could be spoken – or, for all he knew, could see them written – and he would be powerless to stop himself. Treading up to John, Danse placed hands on his shoulders. “I…I don’t believe that we should travel together any longer.” The ghoul stared at him with a stunned expression, those glowing tears rolling down the slope of his jaw. “John, I am terrified that I’ll hurt you – that I won’t choose to, but that the Brotherhood programming given to me by the Institute will make me. That I’ll turn around or I’ll blink, and you’ll already be dead and I’ll have no memory of it. Or that I’ll be aware, screaming at myself to stop, not being able to, and have to watch you die by my hand.” His fingers dug into John’s shoulders. It felt like he was losing everything, his purpose, his drive, his reality. Perhaps this was what ghouls felt like after the bombs, having everything stripped away until nothing was left of themselves or their old lives. “Please…Don’t trust me. Everything was a lie. Nothing was real. Nothing has _ever_ been real.”

“One thing was,” John insisted, eyes searching Danse’s. “Same thing – _the only thing_ – that I’ve never run from.” Cautiously, John reached out with one hand. He moved the pad of one thumb lightly down the raised scar over Danse’s eye, his soft touch lingering, taking his time to trace the mark. “You’re my Dan. You always have been. I’d started to wonder if any of it was real, if I’d just, ya know, made it up on my own. And you don’t…you don’t gotta feel anything back. Maybe you never really did to begin with. But…you have to be okay. I need to know that you’re gonna be okay. I fought for you – hell, I’m still fighting now. And you’re worth it. All of the withholding and the fear and the bitter truths and the goddamn quarrels…it was worth it.”

Danse clapped his hand over John’s, holding it against the stubble of his jaw. John eyes were bottomless, a black void siphoning him in. “All of it was real,” he breathily admitted. John’s fingers curled under Danse’s hand. The moment ached, and he longed to tumble headfirst into the comforting lie and so desperately wanted to tell himself. That everything would work out, that feasibly, the plastic surgeons of the Railroad could give John his old face back. That he could – that he had the right to be – happy. His synthetic body was overloading, incapable of processing this much human emotion at once.

A prickling sensation traveled down Danse’s arms, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose in terrifying familiarity. His hand dropped away from John and he ran for the doorway, peering out into the dark of night. No clouds marred the sky, the stars bright and clear. Static travelled up and down his body, warning him. A funnel of blue-hued energy struck the small island with a sound akin to clapping thunder. A fork of lightning broke from the column to strikethe flagpole, the metal of the rod turning buttery yellow for less than a moment.The conduit dissipated, depositing a figure clad in a full suit of power armor less than a hundred yards away. The headlamp was on, casting a low shine on the heavy weapon filling its hands.

Danse’s heart pounded, churning frozen blood through his veins. The Institute…and the Brotherhood? Working together to claim him? My God. It would never end. How silly of him to fantasize otherwise. He would be hunted and fired upon whenever he went. Anyone around him would be caught in the crosshairs. John joined him in the doorway, slamming a fresh cartridge into his pipe rifle. The ghoul would no doubt spend the remainder of his short life throwing himself in danger for Danse’s sake, wasting the time he had left before feral tendencies claimed his senses, soaking up bullets and blows meant for Danse, meant for this M7-97, a synth that Danse didn’t even know. The risk to John’s life was unacceptable. Reaching a swift resolution, Danse drew a determined breath, turned to John and pleaded with his eyes. “Forgive me.” He reeled back and delivered a carefully angled blow to John’s temple. The ghoul spun and fell, hat knocked clean off. Danse stooped to grab him by the ankles and drag him behind the refuge, blocking him from view should his assailant peer in.

Tossing his gun aside, Danse went to meet his adversary calmly, with palms out. He marched down a few steps and across a fractured brick road, marching to his death proudly, without John as a witness. It would be cruel for him to have witnessed Danse’s murder, and John’s lust for vengeance would have gotten him killed. This was kinder, or so Danse tried to justify in the damning silence that cloaked the area. The solider – synth? – ahead didn’t move, just stood and waited at the base of the colossal flagpole, watching Danse approach openly under the moonlight.

Closing their distance, Danse’s breath fled from his lungs. Someone in Danse’s own armor was waiting for him, a Gauss rifle in their hands. Each ding and scuff held a memory, a close call, a split decision, a proud victory. The bright light from the headlamp made the red paint resemble dried blood. _Rhys?_ _Did he switch sides in his mad need to be the victor?_ Danse pondered darkly, coming to a stop before the figure, looking past the visor, lest he lose his nerve. He settled to his knees and laced fingers behind his head, his posture nothing less than pure submission. He finally understood his place and the price that went with it. He wouldn’t allow himself to feel anything. Rage, despair, it didn’t matter. His life was no longer his own. “Go ahead. I accept my fate. Do want you have to. I won’t stand in your way.”

“Danse, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man in Danse’s armor asked, the tone lacking Rhys’ trademark angry snarl.

Placing the voice, Danse’s fingers immediately slid apart. “Knight Sterling?”

The solider chuckled and tucked his – _Danse’s_ – helmet under one arm. He shook unruly dark hair from his forehead as he looked down from the suit’s elevation. “This is pretty weird. You look so tiny from up here. It’s usually _you_ looking down at _me_.”

There came the telltale ping of metal on metal, and the helmet went spinning from the knight’s hand. Sterling whipped his Gauss around and dropped into a crouch as Danse threw himself low.  

“Long as you fuckers keep showing up, I’ll keep dropping you,” John’s voice rang in his ears, the gravelly pitch unmistakable.

“John, wait!” Danse ordered, rising to his feet as he realized his error. The island was manned and patrolled by robots, not people, the residents holed up in Ford Wood and the statue above. The island must have low levels of radiation saturation that ground for John to have recovered so quickly. He didn’t have a Geiger counter and felt nauseas thinking about what he might have been exposed to. He’d had radiation poisoning before, puking his guts out and losing his hair. Hadn’t he? His memories felt blurry and he didn’t trust them.

The lanky ghoul burst from the darkness, coat trailed behind him, his rifle brandished, the plasma pistol charged and glowing at his hip.

Knight Sterling cocked his head, brown eyes squinting to make out his attacker. “Hancock? What the hell are you doing here?”

John skidding to a halt and lowered his weapon, blinking at them through round eyes. “Shit. Nate?”

Knight Sterling shook his head, even as amusement lit his eyes. “I can’t leave you guys for one day, can I?” Sheepishly, John holstered his rifle, and trotted away to retrieve the helmet, its headlamp still casting a beam of light along scrubby plants. 

Mouth hanging open, Danse wrestled with cautious relief. Out of the entire contingent, Sterling was the one Brotherhood soldier who would hesitate to murder him. Having no means to contact allies within their ranks, such as Sterling and Haylen, Danse had sent thoughts of them aside. “Knight,” said Danse. “How did you find me?”

“Deacon,” Sterling answered, taking the helmet from John. Of course, Deacon. Sterling ran with the Railroad as well as the Brotherhood, a duality that Danse had once admonished him for. “The Brotherhood is used to me disappearing without a full patrol to back me up. If anyone asks, I’m down in Quincy right now.” He rotated the helmet, shining the lamp up to illuminate his face. Hearty bags bulged under his eyes and a few weeks of beard growth coated his cheeks. “Maxson thought I should have your armor with me when I gunned you down, proving a point as to how easily you’d be replaced.” Danse cringed, and Sterling winced at the reaction. “Sorry about that. I’m sure it stings.” He held a metal finger aloft. “Oh! I found an audio file with you and Haylen on it. Seemed incriminating, so I deleted it.” Knight Nate Sterling, savior of the Commonwealth, grinned down at him.

 “You…you’re here to save me? Why? After all I’ve taught you…you don’t believe in any of it?”

“Danse, I met you two days out of cryo,” Sterling began patiently. “You struck that old military cord in me, and it was easy to think of you as a brother. You put up with the decisions I made in Sanctuary, even if you didn’t endorse them. I guess that’s my fatal flaw – spreading myself too thin and caring too much. I just wanted to help you – you and Haylen and the rest of our Brothers and Sisters. Besides, I’m done losing people I care about.” His smile faded, and he regarded Danse with a look too close to pity. “I can’t imagine how you feel right now. I am happy that you aren’t alone, though, no matter how odd the company,” he added raising a brow at John, who did his best to busy himself with a cigarette. 

“I feel…immensely guilty to be alive.” His existence seemed to cause nothing but problems for everyone around him.

“Danse, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Sterling insisted, the space between his brows crinkling. His friendly eyes looked tired. “You fight it. You fight it because you can, because you’re stronger, because you’re better than this. I know you, and you are going to be just fine. You’ll find a way to still bring justice to Commonwealth. What I’m being asked to do – it’s horrible and it’s immoral and I utterly refuse to do it. So when Deacon sent me a location – he sent Codsworth dressed as a Mr. Gutsy to intercept me on the Prydwen, can you believe that? – I thought I’d better bust my ass to reach you first.”

“Knight, if Maxson knew that you simply let me go, you’d be throwing away everything you’ve accomplished.” The Commonwealth needed Sterling’s Brotherhood involvement. The intel and technology he’d have access to would be paramount to the coming war against the Institute, not to mention the manpower.

“Hold up,” John interjected, turning his back to fumble with something. When he faced them, Danse’s holotags dangled from his hand.He passed them to Sterling. “Take these. He got burned up. This was all you could recover.”

Sterling smiled and took them in his metal hand. “Slick.”

“That’s me.” John tipped his hat at Sterling. To Danse, he declared, winking, “You’re already dead and you don’t have any say in the matter.”

An odd look crossed Sterling’s face. “What happened with you two while I was gone?”

John shuffled a little, letting his cigarette burn down in one hand. “I think we landed in a good place.” He gave Danse a shy, careful glace. “Am I wrong?”

Danse poured his heart into the watery smile he gave John. “Not at all.” The support and caring he received from these two men – he didn’t deserve it. Then again, maybe no one really did. Both tended to expend their energy on lost causes and poor chances.

“Come home, Danse,” Sterling urged. “To Sanctuary. I’ll make sure you’re protected.”

“That’s a monumental task, solider.” The Brotherhood was crawling all over the East Coast.

“Not for the General of the Minutemen. Don’t forget – I’ve got my own army. And while they lack Brotherhood discipline, I’ve got Maxson severely outnumbered. Plus, I’ve got the Railroad beat with the number of safehouses and settlements I manage.” His eyes seemed bright as he asked, “I did good, right?”

His subordinate, new to this world, still looking for approval. “Yes, knight. You’ve done an outstanding job.”

Sterling’s chest puffed with measured pride. He gave Danse a curt nod, lips tight and brow stern, all soldier again. After they agreed on a course of action, Sterling disappeared into another sky-wrenching blast of light, and John was tasked with bringing Danse back to the Commonwealth via his back-alley trade routes and safehouses. Neither said much as they waited for another boat to arrive, one that would take them home. Gentle water lapped at the dock, the light from a single oil lantern speckling the ripples, giving them golden crests. They sat on a metal bench by the boathouse, John raking short nails over the knees of his trousers as Danse squeezed a precautionary bag of Rad-Away into his veins.

“That was a damn awful thing you did to me back there,” John spat, looking down at his boots. He hadn’t met with anyone on the island, hadn’t even given the base a second glance, opting instead to stick close to Danse. “What was I supposed to do – wake up and cease giving a shit about what happened to you?”

Danse pulled the short needle out and disposed of the empty bag. “I’m sorry. I made a foolhardy decision.” He had been certain that his life was over. Seeing Sterling under that helmet had sparked a feeling he’d be ready to cast aside – that he wasn’t finished, that he still had so much to live for, that his life didn’t begin and end with his profession. John had tried for so long to convince him of this, but in his thick-headed youth, he hadn’t wanted to listen. Stalling, he took his time shrugging back into his flannel shirt. “This thing between us…I don’t know what it is. I’m not sure how to proceed.”

John slumped back, stuffed his hands in his pockets and nodded. “Okay.”

Midway through tugging up the collar, Danse stopped. “That’s it? _Okay_?”

“Hey, man – what else can I say?” He looked so slight and rebuked, veiled in his costume and low-brow speech. Danse reached to take him by the arm, thin even through the heavy weave of his coat. John heaved a deep sigh and cast a slow glace at him.

Danse felt something burst inside himself and he couldn’t stop the words. “Was I ever with you because I wanted to be, or was it all just programming, making me pick someone like you? Maybe I withheld emotion because my coding to be a superior example overrode my feelings for you, made you seem temporary, inconsequential. Maybe I’m just an asshole. I will always regret my treatment of you – both as you were and as you are. I was embarrassingly wrong.” He looked John in the eyes without recoiling. “I was so goddamned lucky to have found you at all. And, in the end, I threw it all away.” Reading trepidation in the ghoul’s eyes, Danse felt the crushing weight of blame. “John…I am so sorry.”

Before Danse even knew what was happening, John had leaned closer and was boldly kissing him hard on the mouth. Danse didn’t even have time to close his eyes. Just as suddenly, John pulled away and flinched, apologetic. “Fuck,” he said, hunching as he braced for Danse’s vengeance.

Tension fled from Danse’s shoulders and he gave in with an agonized sigh, returning John’s kiss with a greater thirst, taking hold of the ghoul’s ruined face. John tasted like smoke and the artificial fruit flavorings of Mentats. His body burned like a furnace in Danse’s hands, skin hotter than any human could withstand. In his hands – in his heart – it was easy to feel the John he remembered, to imagine smooth, pale skin and flowing hair. “My John,” he breathed. His, wrapped in someone else’s skin, dipped in scars. A stifling feeling rose up inside, blossoming out into his limbs in warm tendrils. In that moment, he knew that he could learn to care about John again. He wanted to, could choose to. Danse did want to try, to see how much of themselves they could recapture, if it were even possible.

An oncoming ferry tolled its bells and they broke apart to watch it approach, its smokestack churning white mist into the night sky. Dropped hands nudged closer, finding one another and weaving fingers together. A second kiss lacked passion but was pleasant and served almost as words. _It’s okay_ , it said. _We’ll rebuild. We have time._


	18. DN-407P

HAYLEN

The Prydwen

January 8th, 2288

_“Attention, Prydwen. This is Elder Maxson. I am elated to inform you that the infiltrating synth unit, M7-97 – whom many of you know as Paladin Danse – has been destroyed. The body has been incinerated in the field. Resignation number DN-407P is being retired. All records of a Paladin Danse are to be immediately stricken from the Codex._ _No services will be held.”_

In the armor bay of the ship, Haylen pressed her back against a wall, wilting as she processed the news. Every soul aboard began to whisper or shout outright. Items broke as they fell from stunned grips. There was a rattling sound as Teagan pulled the heavy gate down in the supply depot. Ingram barked orders to get back to work. Haylen pressed a trembling hand over her mouth. So many people were talking that she had trouble following the rest of the address.

_“There was, regrettably, one casualty amongst our ranks. We believe that Knight Leslie Rhys’s death can be inextricably linked to the synth’s treachery. Knight Sterling will be filling the gap left in our ranks and shall here forth be addressed as Paladin. It is my belief that we have been spared any loss of intel to the Institute. I am aware that having this knowledge come to light has been difficult for a great many of you, as it has been most devastating to me.”_

Several shouts broke out in the galley, slandering Maxson’s character. Answering slurs defended their leader. Haylen peeped down the narrow hall, watching as two soldiers came to blows. Cade dove out of his clinic to break up the squabble as Maxson’s voice droned on.

_“This is an affront that the Brotherhood will need time to recover from. Nevertheless, we all have jobs to do. I expect every last one of you to push through whatever you may be feeling – be it rage, pity, disgust or confusion. We have managed to put a stop to this subterfuge and proven that the Institute will neither crush our mission nor our spirit. Ad Victorium, Brothers and Sisters.”_

Feeling as if she’d been shot in the chest, Haylen clasped hands over her heart. The metal from a set of holotags, newly soldered for Paladin Sterling, bit into her clenched palms. In a single speech, she’d lost the two most important men in her life.

Memories surfaced of long evenings spent with her division during her training as an Initiate in the Citadel. Of her and Danse offering each other their shoulder after a hard day. Her crying in his arms. Him confiding in her even when he didn’t trust himself. His warm smile and troubled eyes. Now, she could only picture his skin bubbling as his body burned and was reduced to a scant pile of ash. Did Danse really kill Rhys? If so, it must have been a devastating decision. He and Haylen had both admired Rhys’ unwavering dedication to the Brotherhood. When she occasionally found her faith flagging, it had been Rhys who gave her encouragement.

She found her grief interrupted as noise swelled, an uproar dividing the ship. Whatever Danse’s background, he’d been respected and adored, and those feelings couldn’t be instantaneously ordered away. Cade was in the eye of a hurricane, forcefully prying Clarke and Johnson apart as several of her brethren shouted down insults directed at their Elder. Glass broke, and tin dishes fell to the floor, soldiers flipping their trays in disgust at either side. Others turned in stunned silence and departed, climbing up to the barracks to reflect alone.

Haylen didn’t quite know what to do with her misery, who to blame. It made her shake and she fought to not lose sight of her duty. The tags in her hand had an owner waiting for them up in the command center. She cautiously pressed through the commotion in the galley, avoiding jabbing elbows and blatant insubordination that was sure to leave the brig at the police station full, and crept by Proctor Quinlan’s office.

“Oh, Scribe,” the proctor called as he sat at his terminal, catching sight of her. He waved her in and raised his voice over the ruckus. “I have a quick task for you.”

Though she bit her lip – keeping Elder Maxson waiting was never a wise choice – she stepped into the office. Quinlan’s cat, Emmett, hopped down from a high shelf and wound himself around her ankles, chirping meows as he rubbed his cheeks against the brahmin leather of her boots. Quinlan slid a rolled yellow scroll tied with an orange ribbon across his desk towards her. “This was Danse’s Scroll of Records. I’ve already deleted our digital copy. Please take it out on deck and burn it. I don’t want the ashes of that traitor’s deeds soiling my garbage.”

It felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over Haylen’s head. Her skin prickled and she felt chilled. Danse’s Scroll of Records. All his deeds done in the Brotherhood’s name, his victories, defeats and discoveries. His history. Proof that he existed. The Elder before Maxson – or was it the Elder before that? – had insisted that hard copies be made of all Brotherhood annals in case of a system-wide failure with the Citadel servers. That had been a lengthy, harried chore for scribes. Gladius’ mission report was etched onto the paper in her own scrawl.

Ignorant of her frozen demeanor, Quinlan sniffed and scowled at the continuing commotion from the galley. “Such disrespect will not go unpunished. Blame should be on the conscripts for their flighty Wasteland ignorance of our laws. Duty as a squire would have eliminated such rebellious behavior early on.”

She didn’t remind him that the Outcasts had once been squires, and that hadn’t stopped them from turning on Lyons. Instead, she gave a passive nod, and her hand closed over Danse’s Scroll. The parchment felt brittle and inconsequential beneath her gloved fingers, like she could crush it without meaning to, the material not worthy to carry accounts of such great deeds. She took it and, with the tags and Scroll in one hand, climbed gawkily up the ladder to the command deck, where she approached Maxson’s post. Up here, everything seemed normal. If there had been rabble in the cockpit, Kells had put an immediate end to it. Enjoying the anonymity that many scribes faced on board, she loitered at the entryway.

The jagged skyline of Boston filled the windows behind the imposing, broad-shouldered figure of Arthur Maxson. His battlecoat drank in the morning sunlight, making the leather shine. The room was open and airy with its wide windows and deep interior. Neat, reupholstered furniture sat in prim setups flanked by end tables scattered with an assortment of beverages. Sterling stood at attention with his back to her. He was out of his power armor, wearing his orange Brotherhood flight suit and regulation combat armor, hands clasped behind him, shoulders thrown back. “I know that you viewed the synth to be your friend,” Maxson was telling him. “Nevertheless, you have done me proud, proving that my assumptions about you have been correct. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

“Thank you, Sir. As requested, I have the infiltrator’s holotags.” Sterling held out his hand, loops of chain slipping out between his fingers.

Haylen felt her heart drop at the sight of Danse’s tags. So that’s what Sterling done to deserve such a sudden promotion – murdered his superior in cold blood. She squeezed the Scroll in her hand, the delicate parchment crinkling.

Maxson waved the tags way as he crossed the command center with purposeful strides. “You can discard them. I have no need for reminders of this atrocity.” Stopping at a side table, he poured a substantial shot of vodka and downed it. “Now,” he said, setting the glass down. “We can finally move on and turn our attentions to the Railroad. I’ll need your intel.”

Sterling withdrew his hand, pocketing Danse’s tags. “Of course, Sir. It may take me some time to locate their new base. They tend to stay mobile, though my sources point to a location in Natick.”

“I understand. Your diligence has been notable, Paladin. You’re a prime example of what the Brotherhood stands for.” Using one finger, Maxson slid a tiny item along the surface of the table. He picked it up and tossed it to Sterling. It was a key, flashing once as it caught the morning light. “The traitor’s quarters and belongings are yours. Let me know when you have uncovered additional information for us.”

“I will. Thank you, Elder.” They traded salutes.

As Sterling approached, Haylen made a purposeful retreat into a corner, out of his line of sight. He walked right by without a glance and descended the latter to the main deck. She felt torn in her obligation – orders to deliver the tags straight to Sterling conflicted with the sick thought of being in the same room as him, to look him in the eye and see the reflection of Danse’s last moments. Had he even given Danse the chance to explain himself or simply sniped him from far enough away to avoid personal contact?

Stuffing conflict into a deep hole inside – the same place where she kept all her doubts and second-guesses about the current regime – she wentto the ladder and saw Sterling work the lock and enter his new room. On whisper-soft feet, she descended the rungs and looked through the doorway, watching as Sterling wearily shed his combat armor, tossing each piece heavily onto the bed, rolling his shoulders once he was less encumbered. Danse’s quarters were just as Spartan as she recalled; devoid of personality, it had only been a place for sleep and storage. Danse had failed to remove his dog’s items even after the loss of the Mastiff, Rhombus, as evidenced by the food bowl and chow cans present. She recalled how the squires would lay on the floor as the puppy had wiggled and licked at them. But that had been prior to Gladius’ Commonwealth deployment, and this room hadn’t seen much activity since. Watching Sterling pick up items, moving through the bottles and memories, lit an angry fire in her heart.

She rapped loudly against the doorframe. The turn of his head was nonchalant. “Sir,” she curtly addressed, holding the tags out by the chain. “I’m supposed to deliver these to you.” _Paladin Nathaniel Sterling_ , they read as they dangled. _SL-818P._ He appeared so proud, chest puffed full, chin held high as he took them from her. She loathed the sight of him. “Rhys. Was that Danse, or was that you?” she accused, emotion overriding good sense. “What did he do – get in your way? Anything for a promotion, right?” Although he remained still, his brow creased, and he brought fingers up to rub at his eyes. His calmness, his refusal to give her the fight she needed to relieve her strain, made her temper tip over the edge. “ _Paladin_ ,” she spat in insult. “You’re still some ladder-climbing vault rat that just happened to stumble onto my signal.” Her face felt hot and she was certain that her cheeks were flushed pink. “How dare you stand here – in his room, in his place. He trusted you. _I_ trusted you!” She slapped his stately face with an open palm. “You’re no hero. You’re just a mercenary in a decent suit of armor!”

Shock made his eyes widen and his mouth hang wide open. Finally, a reaction. “Haylen…”

She tore out of the room, leaving him before she could fully process what she had just done, nearly running as she turned corners, weaving throughout the guts of the ship. She had struck a commanding officer. Her days with the Brotherhood were over. Heavier footfalls chased hers, and she knew he was after her. She took a final turn and ran, the door to the forecastle squarely at the end of the corridor. When she approached the exit, she faltered. What did she think she was going to do – jump off the ship? Pulling a solid about-face, she stared him down. _Paladin_ , she thought again, the idea making her sick. This was still just Nate, some man lucky enough to have avoided being eaten by the Wastes. Some man that had managed to end Danse.

As he advanced on her, she planted a hand against his solid chest. “Haylen,” he said again, his hands rising to take hold of her. She shoved him away. This time, he did grab her. With lightning-fast reflexes, he spun her around so that his arms circled her, and he brought a knee up to nudge the handle of the forecastle’s door. The door swung open and he pulled her out into the morning air, hauling her forcefully out of the way to kick the door shut behind them.

“What are you doing?” she screamed in blind terror. He was strong, easily overpowering her, dragging her backwards out to the very tip of the bow. For one terrifying moment she wondered if he would throw her overboard. She thrashed in his grasp, aiming kicks at his knees and groin. “Don’t –”

He switched up his hold to clap a hand over her mouth. “Haylen, stop.”

At the very most forward tip, he held her at tight against his wall of a body. As he lowered his face to her shoulder, she debated headbutting him. “Haylen, I need you to stop and listen to me very carefully,” he said as she struggled in his arms. Her eyes slid to meet his gaze. The rigging creaked as wind whipped at their faces, causing his dark hair to dance along his forehead. His brown eyes locked onto hers and she nodded against his palm. He didn’t blink as he looked at her, his words very deliberate. “You should come visit me at my old home when you can.  It may not be much to look at, but you’d be amazed to see what’s there now. I still call it Sanctuary for a reason. And so does our friend.” He removed his hand from her mouth.

Haylen stared at him as he released her, her brain churning at an embarrassingly slow rate. Then, she understood. “Oh. Oh!” Danse was safe and Sterling had played a part in that. She threw her arms about his neck, careful to not lose her grasp on the Scroll.

He patted her back just as awkwardly as Danse had. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t have you shouting at me in the middle of the ship. The _incinerated_ bit was my idea. Wouldn’t be anything left for the Institute to try and claim. He’s safe. For now. “

She lessened her hold and gazed up at him. “Did you find him, or was it the ghoul in the hat?”

Sterling smiled brightly. “So, that was your doing, huh? If I hadn’t shown up, I think he still would have been just fine. You put him in good hands.” He coughed and pulled out of her embrace. He looked much older than he had when he first walked into the police station; purple smudges marked the bags under his eyes. “Maybe I was an idealist, assuming that, somehow, the entire Commonwealth could learn to coexist. But the more I uncover, the more unlikely that seems.” He pointed to the door leading back into the ship. “And now, there’s a crack down the center of the Brotherhood. The days of blindly following orders are over.”

Haylen stared down at the Scroll in her hand. She couldn’t go back inside with it. She couldn’t bear destroying it. “Maxson…he doesn’t have the best interests of the Commonwealth at heart,” she began. “And…I feel you know that. Danse was too convincing as a synth. Half the ship is torn over this. Now there’s doubt that everything is as a simple as _us versus them_.” She handed him the Scroll. “Can you take this? Take it far away and hide it? Maybe…maybe some miracle will happen. Maybe Da– maybe our friend will need it one day.”

A frown pulled at Sterling’s lips, but he took the Scroll. His gaze wandered over the edge of the bow. She followed his line of sight down to the crumbling Boston skyline. “You know, when I first saw the Prydwen,” he recounted, “it seemed like Deus ex Machina – _God showing up in a machine_. That phrase ended up being too close to reality. A war isn’t coming – it’s already here. The Institute and the Brotherhood both want the Wastleland to burn, to cleanse it, to repurpose it in their image. And I can’t allow either to succeed.” He glanced at the closed door before fixing eyes on her. “I need someone I can trust on the Prydwen. So does our mutual friend,” he added. “Are you with me?”

She stared at him, lost in the open pleading on his face. If she did this, she’d be a mutineer. The Brotherhood had no tolerance for treason. If caught, her sentence would be death. A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it. She’d already stolen away to the both Diamond City and Goodneighbor without approved leave. She’d abetted a Brotherhood infiltrator, harbored his location, and keep his records intact. It was a little late to consider her service unblemished. In the Capital, she’d thought the Brotherhood her best chance at survival, and a way to give her sad life purpose. She’d never found a viable second option. Until now.  

“I’m with you, Sir,” she said with a crisp nod. Her hand came halfway up into a Brotherhood salute before she paused. She loosened her fist, bringing fingertips all the way up to her right temple and turned it into crisp, old-world gesture.

Sterling’s answering smile was worth the world. “Welcome to the Minutemen.”


End file.
